


Storm of Scenes

by OneFail_AtATime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Deleted Scenes, F/M, Gen, Gendrya - Freeform, Jon and Gendry are the bromance that was promised., Reunions, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:22:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneFail_AtATime/pseuds/OneFail_AtATime
Summary: Being back at Winterfell means facing emotions that Arya Stark thought she had locked away long ago. Those emotions are consuming, like an icy winter storm. Memories of another life are something that she can only try to escape.Until Jon Snow, King in the North, returns to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen's army. Arya is reunited with her brother and when she is confronted with the ghost of her past, the storm breaks....[Essentially Game of Thrones Season 7 & 8: Deleted Scenes because so much was left out.]





	1. Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always and truly appreciated. I work off your thoughts and the comments keep me going!

The Arya Stark who returned to Westeros had become a shadow of the young girl who had left.

Quiet. Deadly. Unfeeling.

When she had left the Frey men dying in the hall, she hadn’t felt anything beyond the smallest shred of peace. Walder Frey had betrayed and killed her family while destroying the North’s fight for independence.

But the North had remembered.

~~Walder Frey~~

She imagined physically scratching line through the name, just as she had cut the line across his throat. A line that had cut straight to the bone. Killing the Freys wouldn’t bring back her mother or Robb but she hoped the revenge of it would help to calm the pained howling wolf in her heart.

And so she left.

Tracking the King’s Landing men to the Inn at the Crossroads had been easy, but it also made stopping at the inn unavoidable. Memories of her last visit began to knock against the wall she had previously pushed them behind. The image of a cheerful baker’s boy running back and forth in the hall did nothing to help her struggle against the painful memories from years before.

She had seen him before he recognized her. It gave her the needed time to push back the memories of Harrenhall and the Brotherhood that tried to force their way through. She didn’t need to think about the dark days of a prisoner on the road. Memories were dangerous.

The young wolf focused her attentions on eavesdropping while planning her next move when Hot Pie finally spoke to her.

She greeted him coolly, casually.

She couldn’t afford to be nostalgic. She was there to eat and eavesdrop. Memories were dangerous. Emotions were worse.

Then her friend from another lifetime asked the one question that she hadn’t been prepared to answer. It sent her thoughts back to the days of trekking through the Riverlands. They hadn’t been safe but she hadn’t been followed by the darkness that enveloped her now. But as Hot Pie kept talking, he became less and less believable. _Jon Snow and a Wilding army? Jon Snow, King in the North?_

Memories crashed through the door. Memories of riding and shooting, of tricking siblings. Memories of comforting words and bone crushing hugs. Neither had fit in to the world they had been born in and it had made their relationship all that much stronger.

Arya wiped the food and ale from her mouth as she struggled to look for her escape. She had to go. The memories were flooding into everything and threatening to completely break through. _Cersei_. She was going _South._ Because _Cersei_ was on her list.

_But Jon._

Jon was her brother, her family. For all she knew, Jon was her _only_ family.

She found herself outside the inn as the stable boy brought round her mare. The Southern men were already pulling their steeds towards the southern road. Arya felt her hands tighten on the reins.

_North or South? Jon or Cersei?_ She had been _so close_ to finding her family before. What if it was all a lie this time too?

_North or South?_

_Jon or Cersei?_

_Family?_

_Or revenge?_

Arya’s left hand fell to the sword at her belt, the sword Jon had given her.

She would head home.


	2. Home (Arya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns to Winterfell and is reunited with her siblings. She trained for so long to be able to fight her emotions. Will being reunited with her siblings change that?

**ARYA**

 

The road from the Crossroads to Winterfell was long but each step brought her closer to home, closer to the memories that she had tried so hard to hide away. Those memories gave her as much trouble as the winter winds, just like the sharp sting that had come with being left behind by Nymeria, though she couldn’t truly blame her direwolf. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she would have done the same.

_I’m headed back to my own family, my own pack._

As the winter storm winds swirled around her, chilling her to her core, Arya tried her best not to let herself have too much hope. Hope was dangerous. It created a fantasy that pulled one from the harsh reality of the world. And it was that harsh reality that you needed to survive. Her heart told her she was going home to her family but her head was as skeptical as ever. She remembered how close she had come to her family at the Twins. She could walk through the gates of Winterfell just as much as Jon could be dead.

 ** _You haven’t had a family in years_** , a cruel voice whispered as she fought sleep that evening. **_You lost your family. Your parents. Your brothers. You’ve probably lost your sister. You lose your family and you’ve been on your own ever since._**

_I can be your family._

Arya awoke with a jolt.

She hadn’t realized that she had fallen asleep and she certainly had no idea where the whispered memory had escaped from. His name and memories were supposed to be locked away.

He hadn’t wanted to be her family anyways.

Arya shut the memories behind the emotional door where they belonged once more. She had to focus on Winterfell. That was all that mattered.

Though it wasn’t easy to describe just how she was feeling in that moment when the towers of Winterfell came into her line of sight for the first time in nearly eight years. She had been a child when she left, a young girl who didn’t fit into the life of lords and ladies that she had been born into. There she was now, returning as a young woman, someone who had seen more than a lifetime of pain and betrayal in the near decade that she had been away.

She brought her mare to a halt as she took in the sight of the castle in the distance. A number of worries began to consume her. What if Jon _wasn’t_ in the North? What if it had been a lie? What if he had _died?_

_It wouldn’t have been the first time._

She never had the chance to say goodbye to her father, her sister, or her brothers. She had been _so close_ to her mother and Robb, but that reunion had been ripped away.

_Life had been unkind._

_Fate was twisted._

The wind from the North blew with a bitter strength, pulling her from her worries and back to a reality that she could face. Winterfell was within her reach and the idea of being reunited with her brother felt like a stab to the icy exterior that she had tried to shroud herself in. It was a welcome wound.

Arya Stark stopped once more to look upon the castle as she approached the gate on foot. The Winterfell she had returned to was darker than that of her childhood. The darkness appeared to envelope the castle entirely.

Winterfell had seen its own horrors, just as she had.

She approached the gate, eyes darting quickly over the activity that surrounded her.

 _“I’m Arya Stark. This is my home.”_ The words were foreign on her tongue. Her very name felt wrong, like she was afraid that by somehow speaking the truth into existence would somehow make it untrue.

She listened with growing impatience as the guards before her doubted her own existence, even though a part of her had been forced to question her own identity just months prior.

_“Tell Sansa her sister’s home.”_

The small flashes of their past bickering that came with speaking her sister’s name was nothing compared to the warmth at the realization that both she and her sister were _home_ , that both she and her sister were _alive._

Avoiding the guard’s punch was a reflex, just as it was a reflex to slip away and make her own path through the castle, growing more familiar with the structure with each step she took. Before long, she found her feet carrying her in a direction that she knew something in the back of her mind was pulling her towards.

The crypt was as silent as the dead who rested there, but she could appreciate the silence now. As a child, she hadn’t truly understood why the adults would spend so much time in the dark, silent levels, wandering past the graves and statues of those long passed. But as she pondered her own beliefs, she realized that she had yet to lose anyone as a child. She hadn’t been able to fully understand the concept.

Of course, she understood now. She and loss were old companions.

It felt like a dream, all of it. It felt unreal to be back at Winterfell. It felt odd to stand in the crypts and stare up at the poorly carved image of her father. It felt weird to refer to herself as Arya.

And when she saw her sister, tall and proud and graceful, come around the corner of the crypt, she was sure that she had been given something by the Faceless God, because it just simply couldn’t be true.

 _“Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?”_ She asked calmly, quietly, as if afraid that she would wake and realize that it all had been a dream, something her mind had strung together in the depths of slumber.

Arya had heard her sister approach long before she saw her. Sound carried in the empty passageways like a raven cawing with a message.

Sansa was taller, darker than what she remembered, though her Tully red hair was as bright as ever. The feeling of her sister’s arms around her threatened to pull at her solid reserve. When was the last time someone had held her? When was the last time that she had felt as if she belonged on the ground where she stood? Arya inhaled deeply to fight the emotions that were fighting to consume her. There could not be any tears, no tug at her heartstrings. Her laugh wouldn’t quite reach her eyes.

But she could still feel the emotions threatening to break, like the winter wind howling in the night. _She_ was alive and _her sister_ was alive. They were both home.

_“But our stories aren’t over yet.”_

Arya felt the sting of tears as she gave in to the swirl of emotions which now consumed her. For the first time in her memory, she was the one to reach out and embrace her own sister, throwing her arms around Sansa’s neck. She was warm and she was real. They were both alive. They were both home.

And it had been her own words that did her in, delivering a blow hard enough to damage the icy exterior that she had learned to hide her emotions behind. As she pulled away after hearing a name, _her name_ , she could feel it just as if the icy exterior around her had been visible.

A crack in the ice had formed, one that she wasn’t sure she wanted to go away.

. . .                   . . .                   . . .

If seeing Bran was painful, she couldn’t imagine what kind of mess she would be in when she found herself face to face with Jon. Sansa had been able to recount part of Bran’s story on their way to the godswoods but it still hadn’t prepared her for the intense and overwhelming relief that filled her when she saw her younger brother living and breathing before her.

He had been unconscious the last time she had seen him. He had been a broken little boy, far from the person that she saw in front of her now. The stranger before her looked like her brother. He sounded like her brother. But he … wasn’t her brother. He was different.

It hurt her to see him so dark, so different.

Her steel eyes watched his reaction, processing every second and storing it for later, though she accepted the dagger with only a brief hesitation. It was as if Bran could see and know things that she would never understand and in the moment the dagger passed between them, she knew it to be true. Gone was the carefree boy who ignored their mother and climbed every inch of the castle. As she looked from her sister to her brother, she realized that they were all shells of their former selves.

. . .                   . . .                   . . .

Arya woke with a start that next morning. The warmth of the furs and the dip of a feather soft mattress was foreign to her, up until the events of the last week came flooding back as she opened her eyes to take in her surroundings.

_The Crossroads._

**_Jon_ ** _was king._

_Winterfell._

**_Bran._ **

**_Sansa._ **

A soft knock caught her attention and pulled her from her thoughts, reminding her of what had woken her in the first place. “Arya?” A soft voice called quietly from the other side of the door. “Are you awake?”

Ripples of surprise raced through her. Seven years without hearing Sansa’s voice brought about an odd sensation upon hearing it now.

“I’m awake,” she called, throwing aside the furs and embracing the chill of the room.

Her sister appeared, dressed in a similar fashion as the day before, with hardly a hair out of place. And just as they had been the day before, Sansa’s eyes were wide with concern. “I take it you slept well?”

Arya nodded. “To be honest, I slept so well that I forgot where I was.” Sansa smiled as she crossed into the room, her Tully blue eyes locked on her sister as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry that your old rooms were taken. Lyanna Mormont returned from Bear Island and-“

“Its fine, Sansa, really,” answered Arya. She watched the way her sister’s eyes grew dark with worry. It was such a sharp contrast from the selfish young girl that she had left behind in King’s Landing.

Sansa set the bundle between them. “I noticed the clothes you wore yesterday were worn. I, uh, I had been working on a tunic for Bran…but I finished this instead…” Sansa’s voice trailed off as Arya began to pull apart the bundle of clothing. The heavy fabric of the tunic was blue, quilted, and lined with fine leather. A pair of breeches fell out from between the tunic as she unfolded it. “I guessed at the measurements so if they don’t fit…”

Arya swallowed, trying to force down the lump that had formed in her throat. “T-these are perfect.” She whispered, careful not to reveal her true feelings. Sansa would see an appreciative smile on the outside when, in fact, Arya knew that she was on the edge of becoming a mess of emotions. Her fingers traced the pattern of the heavy tunic in an attempt to steady herself. The material was the nicest she had seen in years and the careful stitching spoke volumes. “You must have spent hours on this.” She spoke, finally bringing herself to look up at her sister.

Sansa lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I was up late discussing correspondences with Maester Wolkan anyhow. There’s a jerkin to be finished. I’m still sewing the leather. But I wanted you to have something to wear today.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“But I did.” Sansa leaned in to take Arya’s hand in her own. “We’re Starks. The pack takes care of one another.” Arya felt her sister’s hand squeeze her own and the lump in her throat grew. After all their years apart, she was finally sitting beside her sister, someone she assumed she had lost long ago. In another life, she never would have imagined being so happy to be near her sister, the one her child self had loathed for so long. She was lost in her thoughts when Sansa began to speak again. “I spoke with Bran this morning. He wouldn’t tell me much but he told me that you’ve been training. You should keep training with our knights. I think you know one of them … Lady Brienne?”

The softest chuckle escaped Arya at the realization that _of course_ the universe would have somehow allowed for her _and_ her sister to reunite with the warrior woman knight. She just hadn’t expected for them all to be reunited within the same walls. “I would like to spar with her. She beat the _Hound_.”

“So she told me,” said Sansa, nodding with the slightest smirk. “I’ll send a maid with something for you to eat. She’ll bring water and other fresh linen. The jerkin should be finished soon.” She leaned back to take in the full length of her sister’s figure. Arya shifted under her gaze. “And perhaps a cloak. A proper cloak.”

Arya smiled. “Thank you, Sansa, truly.” She smoothed her palm across the tunic once more.

‘You’re home now. You’ll need proper Northern clothing.”

“I’m home now.” Arya repeated. It was still an odd thing to accept, almost like a dream that she had yet to wake from.

Her sister smiled and rose from the bed, as graceful as ever. In that moment, Arya was reminded of her mother and the many times she had sat in the same position. Sansa must have been in the same frame of mind, for her eyes seemed to have clouded with memories as she turned back to face her sister.

“They would be proud of you.” Arya murmured, so many unspoken words passing between them. Though the distance between herself and her sister had formed long ago, before the heavy loss of family had hardened her heart, Arya felt that, quite possibly, the ice between the two siblings would be able to thaw.

. . .                   . . .                   . . .

The days passed quickly in the North. Sunlight faded rapidly and left them all in bitter darkness. Arya settled with ease, glad to be in a new room entirely. The old room belonged to the inexperienced little girl that she had been, not the vengeful killer she had become. The old room held too many memories. And memories were dangerous.

She found herself ready to train once more. It was a nice escape from the quiet questions about her past that Sansa would let slip whenever they were together. Training was a distraction and if she were to accept everything that Bran and Sansa said about the White Walkers as truth, then she would need to train more now than she ever had before.

If only Littlefinger would stop looking at her with that smug half smile all the time, as if he knew something she didn’t.

Arya felt his dark eyes watching her everywhere she went. He watched her in the High Hall, when she patrolled around the castle, and when she began to observe the training that was held during the day. They were beady little eyes, bird’s eyes, and she wanted nothing better than to gouge them out.

 _“Don’t trust him”_ , Brienne of Tarth had spoken one afternoon as they stood watching her squire train with a younger knight. Arya didn’t need to ask who Brienne had meant.

 _“I won’t”_ , she had assured the Southerner calmly, her own expression as unreadable as ever. _“I don’t think I ever have.”_

 _“Good”_ , was all the blonde knight had to say in return.

The talk of war always made lords nervous, so her father had often said. Being at Winterfell gave Arya the opportunity to see their growing discontent firsthand. Jon had left to meet the Dragon Queen and to mine the desperately needed dragonglass. The lords were growing restless in his absence.

She stayed silent. She watched. She waited.

Her frustration with Sansa grew as she waited. Her sister didn’t jump to defend their brother as often as she should and that troubled her. They had been separated for too long for Arya to truly trust Sansa. At this point, she didn’t think to trust anyone.

Loyalty in the North was shifting.

She didn’t like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the dynamic that the directors wanted to create in Season 7, a lot of interaction between Arya and Sansa was cut out. While I respect the decision they made, I was just too frustrated with the lack of true sisterly moments that we missed out on. Just as I hope to peek into what Gendry may have felt while at Eastwatch, I wanted to give my own insight into what our favorite pair of sisters could have been feeling. 
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?


	3. Ready (Gendry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited with Ser Davos, Gendry reflects on the cruel twist of Fate that brought them back together and on the painful dreams of memories that he can't quite escape.

**GENDRY**

 

Word of Daenerys Stormborn’s demolition of Jamie Lannister’s army had spread like Wildfire and he had to admit, it had been good for business. Panicked lords and knights had come to the Street of Steel looking to protect themselves with new armor and weapons before leaving the city and returning to their homes. Nobody wanted to stay in King’s Landing to be burned alive if they had the opportunity to escape to their strongholds.

It made him chuckle to see so many Lannister pledged lords and ladies fighting to leave. Cersei had used fear as a weapon and at that point, even her own banner men were starting to reconsider who was the most fearsome.

Gendry certainly had his money on the Dragon Queen.

This new war against the Lannisters could have been what he had been preparing for. It could have been the very reason why he had felt the need to train every morning while the forge’s fire grew and every night after the fire had gone out. It could have been the reason why he found himself pouring the mold and shaping a war hammer those months back, something he had never given another glance at before he had learned of his parentage. Forging the hammer had been a long and tenuous process but it had served its purpose and kept his mind off other things, dangerous things. He focused on the coming war instead. Once finished, he trained and kept a satchel packed with his few belongings, just in case the moment came.

He would know it when he saw it.

Preparing for the unknown had been a long road and he knew that he had become a different person because of it. His younger self would have sat brooding over the misfortune that he had seen and experienced in his lifetime. But he now understood why the King’s Hands had come looking for him, why the gold cloaks had wanted his head. It pissed him off. The safest place for him may indeed have been King’s Landing but with a war brewing, he was ready to play his part.

_The Lannisters will pay for what they tried to do to me, for what they did to my father. Who knows what my life could have been like as Robert Baratheon’s bastard if the Lannisters hadn’t been the ones truly controlling everything?_

He wondered if his father would have acknowledged him. If Ned Stark would have lived and brought him to meet his father or if he would have been sent away to be raised with his half siblings. Siblings. At point, he had a number of siblings and their lives had been torn from them, just as the hundreds of lives had been torn from the innocent when Cersei Lannister had blown the Great Sept and the surrounding area, leaving nothing but charred ash in its place.

It was then that he knew he had to leave the city. That he had to his escape.

And his escape route came in the form of the same man to whom he owed his life. Davos Seaworth appeared outside his shop and Gendry knew that it was time. The old smuggler didn’t even have to explain his purpose. The two had grown close during his time as Stannis’ prisoner. Davos was probably the only person alive that he would trust.

Of course, the old man tried to warn the blacksmith what he was getting into but Gendry wouldn’t have it. He pulled the war hammer from the wall, turned on his heel, and left his shop without a glance over his shoulder. The time had come. He was ready.

Except both Fate and Time were laughing at him.

Davos Seaworth, known smuggler, had become the trusted adviser to Jon Snow, King in the North. _Seven hells._ He listened without speaking a word as Davos led him through King’s Landing and explained just how exactly he had come to serve the White Wolf. Gendry trusted Davos, he _owed_ Davos, but he just couldn’t bring himself to believe the timing of it all.

_‘Did he have any issues serving the King in the North?’_

_‘Had he heard any stories about Jon Snow in the city?’_

It was all he could do not to blurt out the honest insanity of it all.

He had heard all about Jon Snow. The well-known memory of a grungy young teenage girl came to mind. How many times in their years together had she come to talk about how much she missed that bastard brother of hers?

Fate was cruel. He had accepted that.

. . .                   . . .                   . . .

The scent of the sea was intoxicating. The skies were clear and the wind filled the sails, pushing them northwards. Gendry took comfort in the salty tang of the air as they sailed east. It was fresh and clean, so unlike the foul stench that seemed to be a permanent part of King’s Landing. From where he stood at the ship’s ledge, he could just feel barely feel the soft saltwater spray from the waves crashing against the ship’s hull. He inhaled deeply. It had been moons since he had felt as free as he did in that moment.

A bark of laughter across the deck caught his attention and pulled him from his peace. The men were laughing at something Ser Davos had said. Davos. Hand to King Jon, the King in the North.

 _The King in the North._ He mused to himself. Rumors about the Northern king had spread to his shop but never in his years would he have imagined that he would be setting off to fight alongside him. Gendry bit back the urge to laugh at the hand that Fate had dealt him.

He had spent over three years as an armorer in King’s Landing after Davos helped him to escape. Those years gave him the time to perfect his craft and the freedom he needed to drown himself in his work. As an armorer, he didn’t have to think about how his father had been killed for power. He didn’t have to think about how the deaths of his unknown half siblings had been ordered. He didn’t have to think about the friends that he had lost along the way, or the _family_ he had lost.

He didn’t have to think about her.

And he didn’t. He hadn’t. Up until a few moons ago, that is.

That was the night he had the dream. He dreamt of salt and wind and of a wolf girl that was long dead. She had been _so alive_ in his dream that it was painful. Her clear gray eyes had been hardened and staring out towards the sea and she had looked so determined.

It was her determined gaze that stoked the workman’s fire within him. Her image in his mind wouldn’t let him rest. He felt her pushing him to a purpose that he didn’t know at the time. Completing the details in the war hammer had helped to ease the torment. He was no longer haunted by her image at night but after a point, he was no longer satisfied with his position on the sidelines. Something had _broken_ inside him when her memory had reappeared.

He hadn’t minded being on his own, that certainly wasn’t the problem. Until suddenly it was a problem. Cersei Lannister had blown up the Great sept of Baelor, hundreds of people had _died_ and all the whispered rumors seemed to come across his shop at the same time. _Ned Stark’s bastard is King in the North. The North remembered. Jon Snow, King in the North. Winter had come. The North remembered._

And then there were the dreams, the gods awful dreams. Dreams of her on her own and traveling. Dreams of her on her own and suffering. Dreams that didn’t make sense. Dreams that were fantasies. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep her from his mind after the first dream of salt, and wind, and a wolf girl.

Something was drawing his focus away from King’s Landing and back to the past, something that had such a strong pull that there was no way he could deny it was happening. He found himself thinking of her, a grown version of the young best friend he had lost, and he knew that had she lived, there would be no way that he would have been in King’s Landing. He would be fighting. _She_ would be fighting.

He packed his few belongings and left them in the shop as he tried to think of a plan. After the sept blew, people were fleeing south to escape the winter and the wrath of the Mad Queen. It wouldn’t be difficult to make his way out to the city. He could go North. He would find the bastard King Jon, tell him about his history with Arya, and pledge his sword in the fight to come.

Then, just two days later, Ser Davos had showed up in his shop like a sign from the gods themselves.

From where he stood leaning against the ship’s ledge, he inhaled the salt spray once more. His mind went back to the image from his dream as a tight, painful twist seemed to take hold of his chest. The memories of her were still _his._ The dreams of her were still _his_. And he couldn’t bring himself to break the illusion that had formed in his mind, the illusion that she was alive.

So, for another day, he would keep silent about his history with the King’s sister. For another day, he could fool himself into thinking she was alive, somewhere, and that maybe, just maybe, if the gods weren’t completely cruel, then maybe they would meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry's POV. FINALLY, I know. 
> 
> Fun Fact - The Eastwatch episode premiered on my birthday and I was unbelievably frustrated that Gendry didn't mention Arya at all in any of those scenes, which put a bit of a damper on the evening! Ha. He must believe that she's dead at this point so maybe, just maybe, he's trying to keep her alive in his memories for as long as he can. Or so I've told myself. 
> 
> Warning: I am a major Jon & Gendry bromance fan. You can certainly expect some of that to be coming. 
> 
> I'm becoming more comfortable in posting some of my work but I always appreciate any and all feedback. Does what I'm writing make sense? Is it plausible for what these characters could be feeling? So much was left unsaid in the creators' attempts to squeeze so much into one season that I believe they left a lot open to be interpreted by fans like us.


	4. Pieces (Arya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her suspicions were confirmed. Lord Baelish was up to something.

** ARYA **

 

If there was one thing that she disliked about being back at Winterfell, it would be the politics. Not only were the lords struggling to prepare for both winter and the looming threat of war, but their frustration with Jon’s absence became clearer with every meeting held in the hall. It brought back the memories of dragon skulls and overheard plotting whispers that had spooked her into running straight to her father as a young child in King’s Landing.

And those whispers had led to her father’s death.

But she was far from a child now. And she would see every lord in the North painted red before she would let anything happen to Jon. She had been through and had lost too much already for it to fall apart now.

Arya found herself watching.

She watched as the Northern lords continued to speak out against their king and she listened to them grumble in response to her sister’s attempts at an apology. She watched as the words Sansa spoke in their brother’s defense became overused and less heartfelt. She watched Glover and Royce and Hornwood. She watched Littlefinger. The way he seemed to slither through the shadows of Winterfell and tried to play everythign to his advantage reminded her of a snake. A dangerous snake. It was a disgusting thought and he was a disgusting person but there was something that made her cautious, something she couldn’t quite place. And the way _he_ watched _her_ told her that he was wary of her. He had seen her train with Brienne a number of times already and he knew that she could handle a blade. She could handle a blade well.

She was no longer the helpless daughter of Ned Stark that he imagined her to be and in turn, she could see through the mask of a truly devoted servant that he often wore.

But Petyr Baelish knew nothing about wearing faces.

Arya continued to watch Littlefinger slither through the shadows of Winterfell. He whispered with maids, paid them for their secrets and consulted with lords. Her suspicions were confirmed. Lord Baelish was up to something.

The Faceless Men had trained her well. Unknown to those around her, Ayra was always watching. And though the Faceless Men had trained her to be invisible and to leave no trace, there were times when Arya allowed herself to be seen. Littlefinger took to following her just as she followed him, though she was careful to only let herself be seen while wearing her own face. There was something that he wanted her to know, something that he wanted to lead her to.

So she let him.

The scroll itself wasn’t hard to locate and though she wanted to know the reason behind the message, she was also concerned as to why Littlefinger had gone searching for the letter in the first place. In the wrong hands, it could become a piece of incriminating evidence. Her sister had sided with the Lannisters, betrayed their father, betrayed their family, and Arya held the evidence in her hands.

Arya could see what the letter said. She had read it and reread it quickly before tucking it away for safekeeping.

She could see what it said. But what did it _mean_?

Memories of King’s Landing flashed through her mind as she slipped through the shadows back to her own chambers. She saw Sansa in her memories, dressed in soft, pale Southron silks with her hair braided, twisted, and curled in the decorative style that was so common in the capital. It felt like decades ago but she could still hear the sweet way her sister had sang praises about the blonde prince. She could still see the brightness that any compliment from the cruel Joffrey would bring to her sister’s Tully blue eyes. There was always a blush of pink that followed each compliment. Sansa had been thrilled with the idea of moving to King’s Landing. Her sister had been _consumed_ with the promise of marrying Prince Joffrey. She had thrived in the capital and had been devastated when their father broke the news that they were to return to Winterfell. The memory of the moment stung but Arya could remember it clearly. Sansa had begged to stay, had _begged_ for the chance to marry Joffrey.

Could her sister have truly sided with the Lannisters at one point?

The rumors were that Sansa had killed Joffrey, though her sister had denied the accusation. But she _had_ been married to the Imp and _he_ had been on trial for the prince’s murder.

The thoughts made Arya’s head hurt as she reached for Needle and settled next to the fire to sharpen her weapon and her mind, anxious to resolve her inner turmoil.

All Sansa had wanted was to be queen. But could it have been the power, the control that she craved the most? Her sister had married Tyrion Lannister. As the heir to Casterly Rock, he would have been able to give her said power. A volatile, disturbed boy king like Joffrey would have been disastrous to try and control, Arya reasoned. But she remembered Tommen as relatively quiet, almost meek. Yes, the boy would have been a much easier monarch to control and manipulate. And as the wife to the king’s uncle, Sansa would have been in the perfect place to do so.

Except those pieces together didn’t make sense.

Her sister had become the Lady of Winterfell, the Red Wolf. She had worked with the lords and called on the Knights of the Vale to win back the North. While their brother, the King, had sailed South in what could still be a futile attempt at an alliance, Sansa had been the Stark to remain in the North. It was _her sister_ , not her brother, who was there to help their beloved Winterfell recover from the damage done by the Ironborn and the Boltons. At the end of every day, it was Sansa the people turned to. Her sister had been born to be a lady, had been born to help everyone who knelt to her.

It had only been a few days prior when Sansa had sat in the Great Hall while the Northern lords spoke out against their brother, _their king._ Arya had watched and had grown uneasy as Sansa addressed the lords’ fears but did nothing to calm them. She had watched the lords return to their men, voicing their frustrations and spreading discord across the North. Jon had left to search for dragonglass, something that was desperately needed if they were to stand any chance in defending themselves from the Night King, or so Bran had explained. He had entrusted the North to Sansa’s command, just as she had reminded her sister those days ago, when she had openly accused Sansa of working against Jon.

_Of course._

Sharp metal cut through her skin as the realization coursed through her like Wildfire. Arya cursed as dark red blood welled from the wound. She pressed the bleeding finger to her palm and inhaled, her thoughts spinning.

She had accused Sansa of placating the lords in order to retain their favor. She had heard Lord Royce declare to the entire hall that the Knights of the Vale had ridden North for her. The lords in the North and the Vale had sided against the South, against Cersei. But she had learned from watching that after Jon had sailed South, it had become a fragile alliance at best. Something as simple as a raven’s scroll could bring the North back into chaos. And Sansa, her dear sister, would be left without anyone to rule over. Sansa had not only married a Lannister, but if the writing on the scroll was to be believed, she had sided with them as well.

Would Sansa, if given the option, side against Jon? If the Northern lords and Knights of the Vale gave her the opportunity, would Sansa take it?

At most, the scrap of paper would ruin any chance and mark her sister as a traitor, endangering her life. In the very least, it would strip her of the men’s loyalty and remove her from her place as Lady of Winterfell. The letter was dangerous. Could Sansa be dangerous as well?

She didn’t know anymore.

Either way, the raven’s scroll pleading for Robb to bend the knee to Joffrey would only make things worse.

Arya brought her cut finger to her lips, testing the wound gently as she tried to piece together what was before her. It was difficult to remember their father’s execution. That day had been pressed to the back of her mind, locked away with the emotions that she tried her best to ignore. Any attempt to remember that day always came with a stab to her chest, something that pained her far more than any mortal wound. But she did her best to remember it in that moment, to try and understand. Their father had died on Joffrey’s orders. When she allowed herself to think back to the day, pieces of it stood out clearer than others. She remembered the sound of the crowd calling out, labeling her father as a traitor. She remembered her sister’s red hair in the light of the sun.

She remembered how Sansa’s face had twisted in fear when Joffrey had called for their father’s head. Sansa’s terror had been clear. She hadn’t known that the execution was coming. She had begged for their father’s life, she had cried out to stop it. But their father had died anyway. Their mother was dead too. And Robb. And Rickon.

Sansa was her family. One of the few family members she had left.

But Jon was her family too.

Arya sighed and stood from the chair, crossing the room to kneel at the side of her bed. She reached beneath the frame, her hand grasping for the strap of the leather bag that she had carried with her from Braavos.

She pulled the bag towards her, sifting through the leathery, paper-like material for het particular face she had in mind, the one she had chosen in order to appear as plain and as unnoticeable as possible.

Leaving Needle and the dagger on her bed, she changed into the servant’s wear that she had lifted from the wash before dirtying her hands with the ash from the fireplace.

There were pieces that were missing and they weren’t for Arya to find.

They were for No One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to know what was going through Arya's mind after she found the letter Sansa had written to Robb back in Season 1. She was obviously upset and conflicted (apparent in the way she accused Sansa in Beyond the Wall) but how did she get there? 
> 
> And WHEN did the intervention happen that shined a light on Littlefinger's true treachery? I loved how the directors filmed the sequence of the last few episodes of Season 7. For a moment, I was truly worried that the sisters were harmed one another. I just wish they had given us a better scene at the end that had given us more detail about how our favorite pair of sisters managed to pull this off. 
> 
> Thoughts? Concerns? Questions? Comments? I'm new to posting and always want to know what you're thinking when you're reading this.


	5. Foolish (Jon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they sail North to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the Stark son and Baratheon bastard get to know one another. 
> 
> Though both seem to be hiding their thoughts.

 

** JON **

 

The feeling of a ship rocking beneath him would always feel odd. It had taken Jon three days on their trip down to Dragonstone to gain his steady footing. Thankfully, he was more comfortable this time around as they began to sail for Eastwatch-By-The-Sea.

The Northmen were all doing their best to keep themselves busy as they sailed past The Fingers and up towards the direction of the Shivering Sea. Their main priority had become training with the dragonglass daggers that Jon had instructed a number of soldiers to make from the mined ‘glass that had been stowed away on the ship, awaiting their delivery to the Wall.

Jon stood with Davos at the bow of the ship and continued to watch the men train. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned to see Gendry Waters dark form where he stood examining an open crate of dragonglass, some that had yet to molded into weapons. Jon held the urge to smile. There was something he liked about the bastard smith that he couldn’t quite place. Mayhaps it was their connection to their fathers, or the simple fact that they had both been raised as bastards. Either way, he couldn’t deny that the man was a fighter, and his dedication to their cause was even more impressive.

The smith had a sense of duty and honor that he knew his father could have, and his family would, appreciate. With Sam in the Citadel, Edd manning Castle Black, and Tormund at Eastwatch, there weren’t too many that he shared the connection of friendship with. Ever since the lords had declared him King in the North, the majority of his fellow Northmen all bowed to him and were more respectful than friendly. Not Gendry though. The lad had teased and laughed with him as easily as he had with anyone like Sam, or Grenn.

Or Robb.

Turning to Davos, he decided to address the young blacksmith. “You said the boy was from the city. Can he truly handle himself?”

Davos nodded. “He saved myself and Lord Tyrion from the goldcloaks when they recognized the Lannister. Took that hammer to ‘em.”

“And he’s really King Robert’s son?”

Davos nodded once more. “His uncle, Stannis, knew it. That’s how I met the poor lad. He accepts his parentage now, though he wasn’t too proud o’ being a bastard b’fore.”

 _‘Wear it like a shield’_ rang through his mind. It had been years since Tyrion Lannister had said those words but they were just as true that day as they had been before.

Jon crossed the deck until he was standing just in front of the blacksmith. “Davos said that you can handle yourself. How do you feel about getting some practicing in?” The smith blinked up at him, as if processing everything that Jon had just said and questioning why he was being addressed.

“I, uh, well-“

“Unless you’re still findin’ your sea legs,” suggested Jon, giving the young man a way out.

Gendry chuckled. “Ah, no. Ship’s rockin’ don’t bother me none.” He leaned over to pull the war hammer from where it had been leaning against the crate after everyone’s practice earlier. “This al’ight?”

“Course.” Jon answered, his eyes on the make and detail of the weapon. “You make that yourself?”

“Aye.” The smith nodded. “When I got back to King’s Landing after- well, I needed something to get my mind off my anger. It took moons to make and moons ‘fore I was happy with it.”

Jon nodded. “And you practice?”

There was a flash in the black haired man’s blue eyes that he couldn’t quite place. _Sadness?_

Gendry spoke softly, his voice almost strained. “A friend of mine always used to say I needed to practice.”

“Sounds like a smart friend,” reasoned Jon, not wanting to press any further. He drew his blade. “Guess it’s time to see if you’re as good as the old king.”

Both men grinned at one another. He saw Gendry’s eyes flicker to where Davos stood watching just a few paces away. The older man would be assessing him just as much as the King would be. Though he could tell by the smuggler’s raised brow that the older man considered them dimwitted for choosing to use their battle weapons, rather than the selection of dragonglass ones nearby. A blow from a warhammer would cause far worse damage than a wound from a ‘glass blade.

The two men took their positions, circling one another as they sized up their opponent. Jon was impressed by the way the armorer held the warhammer with ease, as if it had been made of wood rather than the best metal that could be found on the Street of Steel.

It was the King who took the first step forwards. He brought his blade down swiftly, which Gendry easily blocked with the bar of his hammer. He then turned to the side and brought the bulk of his weapon down in an attempt to knock the King from his feet. Jon laughed at the speed of the young man, only to spin away when the hammer was swung at him once more. He could feel that the smith was hold back his true strength by the way he landed his blows. Anyone standing in his way on the battlefield would certainly find their chest caved in.

Jon was grateful for the chance to practice. It was easy to lose himself in the ebb and flow of their training. For once, Jon’s mind wasn’t clouded with the thoughts of dragonglass and dragon queens and wights and winter. There was only the feel of his sword in his hand and the rush of ducking to avoid a painful blow from his opponent.

A crowd of sailors soon gathered around the area where the two were practicing. Both were eager to see which of the men would best the other. Jon was King in the North. He had training as the son of Ned Stark and training as a Black Brother. But Gendry was impressive, almost intimidating, whenever he chose to practice with his warhammer, swinging the weapon as easily as if had been a child’s sword. His height and brute strength gave him an advantage that few others could claim.

It was near a half hour later when they were both out of breath before Jon finally called a draw. Panting and sweating, the Stark son clapped a grinning Baratheon bastard on the back. “Very impressive.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Gendry said as he too tried to collect his breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper person to train with.”

Ser Davos had now made his way over to join them, practically beaming. “Great work from the both o’ you. I think some ale will help to cool you down.” He motioned to where a few men had already cracked open a barrel. Davos soon found drinking horns for the three of them, only to be called away by Ser Jorah and the captain before he could take a drink of his own. He left Jon with Gendry, who was already staring into his own drink as if the dark ale would speak to him.

Jon broke the silence. “So. Tell me. How did Robert Baratheon’s son make friends with the Onion Knight?”

“Bastard son.” Gendry reminded him. “Though it was Robert’s brother, Stannis, and his people who found me and held me captive.” He paused, eyes dark with the memory. “They needed my blood.”

The King frowned. “ _Your blood_?”

A visible shiver ran through Gendry. “Davos told me that you met him … and his Red Witch. They were known to use blood magic. Thank the gods Davos is a good soul. He snuck me from my cell when he knew I was in real danger.”

“So that’s why you’re here? You owe him?”

Gendry looked down to stare into his ale once more, shaking his head slowly. “No,” he answered quietly, honestly. “I’ve grown tired of serving men like the Lannisters who only bring pain to my friends and family. It wasn’t enough to only try to help the few people I could in King’s Landing. I wanted to do something more.”

 _He’s got a Stark’s honor._ Jon mused.

“I grew up without a family, without a purpose,” continued Gendry, somewhat hesitantly. “I escaped with my life…when so many others didn’t. I went back to training and learning about weapons. I went back to making them… but it didn’t feel right. So here I am.”

“I’m glad of it.”

Gendry took a long drink from the horn before speaking. “But I have to know.”

“Know what?”

“How does a bastard become King in the North?” Gendry asked, his voice light with laughter.

“A twelve year old girl stands in front of all the other lords and says that I am.” Jon laughed at the utter disbelief on the blacksmith’s face. “That’s honestly how it happened.”

“A twelve year old girl…”

“A twelve year old girl.” Jon confirmed as he took another drink. “I called the Northern lords together after we took Winterfell from the Boltons. We were supposed to discuss the Walkers. Then the tiny terror that is Lyanna Mormont stood and tore them all a new arsehole when she called ‘em out for not joining us against Ramsey to take back the North.”

“Lyanna…” muttered Gendry. His brow furrowed.

Jon nodded. “Named for my aunt, Lyanna Stark. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

“Right.” Gendry confessed, his face twisted as he appeared to recall said stories. Was Jon imagining it or did the blacksmith looked pained at mention of his aunt?

“My father never spoke of her.” Jon explained. “But the people of the North remember. She was a winter rose, they say. Beautiful and fierce. Lady Mormont was aptly named. Both were stubborn and refused to be judged just because they were girls.” A warm smile lit Jon’s face. The smile reached his Stark gray eyes. “Lyanna reminds me of my sister.”

He caught the pained look that took over the smith’s face this time as the furrow of Gendry’s brow deepened.

“Y-your sister, Your Grace?”

Up to that point, Davos had only mentioned Sansa on occasion when they discussed whether or not to send a raven alerting Winterfell of his decision to go beyond the Wall. But Jon couldn’t bring himself to mention his youngest sister, his _little sister_ directly. The comment itself had slipped before he had realized what he had been saying. Jon had been overcome with relief at the news of her and Bran’s survival. Yet, the world had proved itself a cruel place. Talking of his fiery sister and admitting how much he longed to return to Winterfell to see them both would be tempting fate. Instead, he stood and left his empty mug atop the ale barrel.

Just thinking about the possibility of not seeing his sister again had made him tired.

“Best tuck in for the night. Maybe we’ll get a bit more time to train as we sail North.” He turned. “G’night, Waters.”

He left the smith where he sat leaning against the crate, staring into his ale with the same pained expression as before.

…                    …                    …

The winds grew colder and stronger, turning into great gusts of wind that when they hit, could take the very breath from your lungs. The temperature had dropped rapidly once they had sailed past the Grey Cliffs and with the wind at their backs, they would land at Eastwatch within a day’s time. But the weather was cause for concern. The way the clouds hung low in the sky, dark and heavy, warned that a heavy storm was on the horizon.

After months in Dragonstone, the thought made Jon shiver. He had grown used to the warm spray of the sea in those months. He had liked the slight chill from the cliffs, cool enough to remind him of the North without feeling the true effect of winter. His men would say he had grown soft, but he had found a sense of comfort on the small island. As another gust of freezing wind blew through him, Jon wished for the warm fires of Winterfell, or, he realized with a sharp pang, to find himself back at Dragonstone, in the warmth of the dragonglass cave with Daenerys at his side. A foolish wish, he knew, but he still thought it.

They had come to know one another in those months, something that neither had expected to happen. It felt like a short time but in that time, they had come to respect one another’s opinion and to seek their council. It was difficult not to see her as her people saw her, as a powerful queen with a kind heart and a vision for the future. He would be lying if he didn’t say that he wondered what would have happened, what would have been if they had just met as a woman and a man, as two souls who weren’t tied to the kingdoms they had promised to serve.

Jon knew it was foolish to spend time on such thoughts. There was a war on the horizon, a war like none of them had ever known before and he had just promised to lead a group of men into the depths of enemy territory. He had other things to think about than the way that the Dragon Queen’s eyes would brighten to a shade of violet that he had only ever seen in flowers, or how her smile was often soft whenever their gaze met, which had been happening more often than not.

There was something about her spirit, it reminded him of his own.

Shaking his head violently as if to chase away the thoughts, Jon turned from the bow of the ship and back to the bustle of the crew. The men were aware that they would be arriving in a short time and they moved about the deck swiftly, all rushing to ensure that they would be able to unload their supplies and retreat into the warmth of the towers as quickly as possible. All men were rushing back and forth. All except for two who were gathered around the crate of dragonglass that would be given to the men at the Wall. He recognized Gendry as the man at Davos’ side. The men were smiling, laughing. It was the happiest that he had seen Davos in ages.

“You keep comin’ back to that dragonglass, Waters.” Gendry jumped and turned at the sound of the King’s voice, as if being caught with something he wasn’t supposed to have. “I saw you practicin’ with it this morning.”

The smith bowed his head just before looking back up to meet Jon’s gaze with a grin. “I’m an armorer, Your Grace. This glass is somethin’ you’re makin’ weapons with. I was askin’ Ser Davos just how it’s been done.”

Davos sighed. “Except I’m no smith, Yer Grace, so I’ve been tryin’ my best.” The old smuggler explained. Jon looked to the block of dragonglass that Gendry held in his hands. He took a step closer to the crate and peered down at the glistening material, as dark as a night’s sky.

“We’ve made a good deal of weapons already, but there’s always a need for more. It’s nothing like steel. It’ll break on you.”

“So can metal,” explained Gendry as he turned the dragonglass over in his hands. His gaze met Jon’s once more. “Can I work with this?”

“Course you can.” Jon assured him. He reached over for one of the lances that the men at Dragonstone had made. “It took them a while to sharpen it and they didn’t have your trainin’. Davos said your old master was the best in King’s Landing.”

Gendry grinned as he seemed to recall his master fondly. “Aye that he was. And he trained me right, Your Grace.”

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. Weeks traveling together and the smith still tried to be as proper as he could remember to be. Leaning back against the crate, Jon turned to face the two men. He and the smith had spent a good deal of time talking about their plan to go beyond the Wall with Ser Jorah in the days before. They all knew that it was a foolish idea. But they all knew they had to do it. The truth in it was what made Jon all the more concerned for Gendry. The man was Southron. He was a bastard. It made him all the more likely to try something stupid beyond the Wall in order to prove himself. Jon knew the thought process behind it. He had felt something similar himself, on more than one occasion.

“Do you know what one of my favorite stories is?” Both Gendry and Davos shook their heads. Jon grinned. “It’s about our fathers. It’s one that my father would tell me and my brothers time and time again whenever we were caught making fools of ourselves. When our fathers were young, they were shipped off to the Eyrie to be taught by Lord Arryn. Robert was always trying to prove himself and because of it, always getting into trouble. So one time, he convinced my father to ride out with him to fight the Hill Tribes. They were ‘bout four and ten. Young lads. Idiot lads.”

“What happened?” Gendry asked, though he smiled as if he could guess the answer.

Jon laughed. “They got lost, of course. Lord Arryn sent the Knights of the Vale out in full force to bring them back.” He shook his head, smiling brightly at the memory of sitting in the hall with his brothers and father after hearing the story told for the umpteenth time. “Lord Arryn forbade them from ever riding out by themselves again. And from then on, everyone in the Eyrie knew them as the worst of troublemakers.”

Davos chuckled. “It seems that troublemakin’ is a family trait then, judgin’ by the two of you.”

The young men exchanged knowing smirks. Davos had quickly made his opinion of their mission clear on more than one occasion as they sailed for the Wall. He called them foolish for going through with Tyrion Lannister’s idea. Just as he had called them fools for nearly knocking a pair of men overboard when they had spared back to back for the first time. And he had called them foolish the day before when they had become so bored that they decided to race one another up and down the deck of the ship. Yes, they took after their fathers alright. A strong and fast friendship had been forged between them. Except this time, it would be the Stark son who would be leading the son of a Baratheon into danger.

The thought forced the smile from Jon’s face.

“When our sons tells this story, they’ll tell of how we ran right into danger.” Gendry joked.

Jon paused to try and read the smith’s expression. “Are you sure about what you signed up for?” He had asked his friend this countless times on their journey North. He had lost many a brother in arms over the years and took each death as a massive blanket of guilt.

Gendry shrugged passively. “It’s what I expected, Your Grace. When Davos here told me about the Army of the Dead, I knew that I’d face ‘em sooner rather than later.” His blue eyes, a trademark of his heritage, darkened with his thoughts. “But if anything happens to me, don’t blame yourself, You’re Grace. Al’ight? This is my decision.”

Jon felt a strong sense of comradery for the man. There had been moments like that before, when Gendry acted as if they had known one another for years, almost as if he had been raised alongside Jon with his brothers at Winterfell. It was moments like that when Jon could understand why his father had risked his life for Robert Baratheon on numerous occasions, just as he had would risk his life for Sam, or Edd.

Jon grinned.

“If you know me so well then you better start calling me Jon. Especially if you’re so set on risking your life on my orders.”

“You didn’t order me to do this. I volunteered.”

Davos looked torn between ready to either hug them both or to crack their skulls together for being so ridiculous. “Foolish. The both of you. How many times do I have to say it?”

The King in the North and bastard blacksmith grinned at each other.

“Maybe just once more,” teased Gendry. His Baratheon blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Gendry are the bromance that was promised. 
> 
> It would have taken AGES to sail from Dragonstone to Eastwatch, especially in winter weather. That would have given our boys plenty of time to bond and become best mates. You'll notice they go from teasing one another in the dragonglass cave to sitting side by side once they sit down with Davos, Tormund, and Jorah. 
> 
> Not only did Gendry not mention Arya BUT NEITHER DID JON. I have resigned myself to believe that he just didn't want to tempt Fate by saying anything like how he looked forward to seeing her again. 
> 
> In other news, I wanted to explore the Jon x Dany relationship JUST BECAUSE it was so rushed in Season 7. There were teasing comments made by Davos and Tyrion throughout the season but neither Jon nor Dany truly voiced their feelings until the scene where Jon bent the knee. I would have loved to see a few scenes where Jon is conflicted about his growing feelings for the Dragon Queen and his promise to lead the North. 
> 
> You may hate me for adding the Jon x Dany element. I'm sorry. But i needed answers there too. I CAN promise you that this will strictly remain a Gendrya focused fic. 
> 
> Shoot me your comments, questions, concerns. I'm not lying when I say that posting makes me nervous. I have been writing for years and this is the first ship I have posted anything for. 
> 
> So...thoughts?


	6. What If (Gendry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry fights with his own thoughts beyond the wall while trying to ignore the jumble of emotions and memories that had resurfaced after being reunited with Thoros and Beric.

** GENDRY **

****

**_A Stark son and a bastard Baratheon both venture north of the Wall._ **

It sounded like a really bad joke to Gendry.

And in a way, he supposed it was.

The wind and snow blurred around them, howling and chilling everyone to the bone. The young smith had caught back up to the front of the group, though he was careful to keep distance between himself and the ginger Wilding. His argument with Beric and Thoros earlier in the day still clung to him. Forget what the Hound had said. He had _a right_ to be angry.

Gendry couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud but he had thought about that pivotal moment on numerous occasions. There were so many _would, could,_ and _what ifs_ connected to that one moment in his past. Would he really have stayed with the Brotherhood? Could he really have truly turned away from the one person in his life that he had grown close to? And then there was always the most painful _‘what if’_ that he found himself repeating on more than one occasion lately.

What if he had stayed with Arya and she had _survived_?

It was a futile thought that only brought about more pain and he knew it, even though he couldn’t stop himself from thinking it.

And right now, he was in what could be the most dangerous place in the world. He couldn’t afford to be thinking about anything other than survival.

Which is why everyone else’s talking annoyed him so much.

All the other men in their group, Tormund’s Wildings excluded, somehow shared a history. The Dragon Queen’s man had apparently fought side by side with Beric and Thoros during a rebellion. And it was his father who had been Jon’s Lord Commander at Castle Black.

But he did have to admit. It was rather amusing to see the Hound traveling with the Brotherhood leaders after everything that had passed between them.

“Did you hear me, Waters?” A voice called from a few feet behind him. Startled, Gendry turned abruptly, war hammer held high in defense. He saw King Jon standing at the front of their group. It was only then that he realized he was the furthest ahead. “We’re making camp to get a few hours rest.”

Gendry sighed and turned back towards where the men had settled into a ravine cave that the Wilding scout had located. The sun had set hours ago but they had kept marching despite the bitter night winds that were nipping at their ears and noses. He supposed it _would be_ nice to finally take the time to try and warm himself by a fire.

The men all took turns helping to unpack the supplies that Tormund’s men had brought with them. Gendry gladly accepted a chunk of dried meat from one of the men and took a seat at the edge of the group, close enough where he could feel the heat from the flames but far enough away that he wouldn’t be forced to talk to anyone. The rest of the men took to unpacking what sleeping rolls and blankets they had brought with them and the conversations began once more. He sat silent at the edge of the group, watching and listening, until a voice broke through to him once more.

“You need to move closer to us all or you’ll freeze.” Jon spoke as he stared at him pointedly.

“The lad is a loner, always has been.” Ser Beric commented when Gendry didn’t immediately move towards them all.

“Not true. He had his friend. They kept one another warm when needed.” Thoros teased as he took a drink from his flask, his eyes glued to the blacksmith with a knowing gaze.

“A lady friend?” Tormund questioned, sitting up straighter with clear interest.

“She was no one.” Gendry muttered, forcing the lie through his clenched teeth. “Look, I’m moving to join you. Keep your breeches on, all of you.”

Tormund let out a sigh, disappointed in the lack of conversation. Though he recovered quickly and turned to stare cheerfully at the Hound. “So tell me, Dog Man. How do you know _my_ lady?”

The Hound glared. “Bloody woman punched me off a cliff a few years ago.”

Tormund’s smile grew as he turned to gaze happily into the fire. “When this is over, I’ll bring her north. A warrior like her would be worshipped by the Free Folk. She’d like that.”

Gendry ignored most of the conversation from that point on, choosing to instead focus on the warmth that was slowly starting to spread through to his extremities. As the men grew tired in the warmth of the fire that they all circled around, Gendry voiced his decision to take first watch. Given the events of the day and his reunion with the Brotherhood, he knew that there was no way he could sleep. Ghosts of memories were too active in his mind for him to find any rest.

What in the seven hells had he been thinking? Perhaps Davos had been right. Perhaps he _was_ a fool. Though he knew it wasn’t the fact that he had volunteered to go beyond the wall that made him foolish, it was the fact that he volunteered to go with _her brother_. He had set himself up for those moments when he felt her name pressing against his lips, threatening to spill over in his attempts to confirm what he knew. Because he knew she was gone. The only Stark sister that either Davos or Jon had mentioned in their time traveling north had been the Lady Sansa. He had felt a twist of pain in that moment as Davos had gone on about the Red Wolf’s role in the Battle of the Bastards simply because it could have been Arya, _should have been Arya_ who also helped to reclaim the North.

And he had dreamt of her again that night, surrounded by a pack of wolves that she herself led into battle. It had been a glorious dream to see her with such power but as the sun rose in the East and he had gone up to join the crew on deck, he had to force himself to remember that that’s all it had been.

A dream.

Except he knew that he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Arya, even if he tried. There was just something about the King in the North that reminded him of the fiery she wolf but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, bring himself to say anything. Especially not to the King. Because if she was truly dead, Gendry didn’t think he could bear to hear it said aloud. She had existed so long as a wisp of a memory that to hear her death announced by someone else, by someone she had loved, would be something he didn’t even want to imagine. He wanted to keep her that way, the ghost of a memory. He didn’t want to think of any other harm that could have befallen her in the time since they had been parted.

_Because what if._

That’s all his life had become in those weeks since he arrived at Dragonstone. He had been consumed with the possibility behind each and every what if.

What if he had gone North at the first mention of the bastard King in the North? What if he had sworn himself and bent the knee to the Starks who had retaken Winterfell? What if he had heard of the Battle of the Bastards and decided that the North was a place he should be, if only because she had once mentioned its possibility? Hadn’t it been Arya who had spoken of the idea of it into the universe?

Except that had been a different time, it had been a different place. It had been a different brother and she had been with him. She had been at his side. She had been alive.

It felt like a different person’s memory when he thought back to that time. When he thought back to the Gendry and Arya of those days. He felt like a completely separate person from the boy who had lived then. So much had changed and there was still so much that was left unknown.

Yet he still thought ‘what if’.

They were questions that haunted him. They hide at the back of his mind and were locked away into the depths of his soul. And it was because part of him knew that the outcome of those ‘what ifs’ could have drastically changed both their futures.

Arya had wanted him to smith for her brother and she had wanted him to go North even if it was never truly discussed in depth between them. There had been so much more they never truly discussed either. Because what if he had decided that she was right and that they should have gone in a different direction. Would they have ever run into the Brotherhood? What if they had escaped Harrenhal at a different time? With different people? With more people? Would they have been able to make it North on their own? Arya had mentioned her sister and had wondered more than once what had become of the elder Stark. What if they had made it a priority to reunite with her sister rather than her king brother? What direction would that have taken them?

It had been Jon who Arya mentioned on numerous occasions. It happened once and then she had hardly stopped talking once she got started talking. It had annoyed him to no end, the way she could go on and on about a subject and never seem to give him any peace and quiet.

But he had never complained. At least, never truly meant it when he did.

What if they had kept to their plan to go North? What if they had crossed into the kingdom and what if they had made it Castle Black? Would he have become a black brother? Would Arya have stayed at their side? There were so many possibilities and so many frustrations with each what if that he wondered just where his sanity had gone.

But that didn’t stop him from wondering, from hoping.

It was almost cruel that at one time they had been all the other had. They had depended on, trusted on one another with their lives, only to be separated. In those first few days after the news of the Twins and the Red Wedding had reached him, he had gotten so drunk that he fell into a black abyss. Eventually he found himself facing the most painful ‘what if’ that there was to imagine.

What if he had stayed?

In the cold biting wind of the North and the white lands beyond, it was that question that he found himself going back to over and over again. It was the worst ‘what if’ to face because he knew in the depths of his soul, that if he had set aside his bastard pride then they would have stayed together.

And Arya would be alive.

He passed the next hour in silence until the sound of someone stirring next to him caught his attention and he turned to see Thoros shifting from where he had been huddled between Gendry and Ser Beric. The Red Priest yawned and attempted to blink away the sleep in his eyes. Gendry turned back to face the bleak darkness that was the icy terrain in an attempt to ignore the man, though he knew the attempt would be useless. Their day spent traveling told him that Thoros was as much the troublemaker as he had been all those years before. He felt the Red Priest watching and so with a heavy sigh, he turned reluctantly.

“What? Have something to say?”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Thoros murmured, tightening the furs around him as he gestured towards the king.

Gendry blinked in response before edging away as the Red Priest moved to sit closer to him.

“The King in the North doesn’t know that you were running around with that little sister of his, does he?”

The smith’s only answer was to glare at the priest, his jaw clenched tightly. It wasn’t the first time that he had thought about telling Jon. It probably wouldn’t be the last. “Not like I could have introduced myself as the man who once traveled with his dead sister.”

“You don’t know she’s dead, lad.”

Thoros’ words struck him like a blow from his own war hammer. The breath was pushed from his lungs as his heart tried its best not to cling to the spark of hope that the Red Priest had ignited. He had been fighting that spark for years, doing his best not to even try to believe the impossible.

Shifting away from Thoros once more and moving closer to the mouth of the cave, Gendry stared out into the dark of night. His thoughts were starting to run wild. In a few hours’ time, they would all be packing up their things to head back out into the biting cold of the winter winds. He needed to clear his mind, to get back to focusing on the task at hand and the many dangers Jon and Davos had said that he would face Beyond the Wall.

He couldn’t afford to think about the ghost that was a lost Stark girl with short, unruly hair and gray eyes that felt like they could melt even the strongest metal whenever a glare was sent your way. He couldn’t afford to think about the annoying girl posing as a rough and ragged little boy all those years who had turned into a fierce young woman that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He couldn’t afford to think about the way that they had laughed with one another, depended on one another even in the darkest of times. He couldn’t afford to think about the way that he had so desperately wanted to stay at her side, only to turn away from her in the end.

He couldn’t think about it.

No matter how badly he wanted to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 7 was a rushed hot mess. Can we all accept that?
> 
> Just because Gendry thinks Arya is dead and doesn't want to bring her up to Jon doesn't mean that he wouldn't think about her. In my mind, I really think that traveling with Jon would have brought back a lot of memories for Gendry that he probably tried to forget a long time ago. 
> 
> Besides, if Thoros had made it to Season 8 then you KNOW that he would have loved the chance to tease Gendry about Arya. 
> 
> What do you guys think? This has really just become a way for me to justify everything that happened in Season 7. I hope you guys can accept my ramblings against what D&D gave us.


	7. Would (Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsettled by her confrontation with Arya, Sansa seeks a quiet space to mull things over and finds the smallest bit of comfort in an unlikely source.

SANSA

She felt as if she were back in King’s Landing.

Sansa imagined that she had literally fallen into the snake’s pit of a capital, that she was surrounded by vipers and rattlers and countless others who wished to strike her in order to bring her down with their own choice of poison. Because everywhere she turned, she saw yet another face that she didn’t think she could trust.

What pained her the most was that one of those faces belonged to her sister.

Sansa didn’t think herself a complete fool. She knew that of all their siblings, Jon had always been Arya’s favorite. They had formed a special relationship as children that she didn’t think she would every truly understand. She supposed there was a bond that came from being a misfit and if there were ever two misfits in Winterfell, it certainly would have been Jon and Arya. Because Jon had been the bastard, not quite an orphan but also not quiet part of the family. Arya had been uncomfortable in her own position, resentful of her being a lord’s daughter when Sansa had thrived in the responsibility and popularity.

Jon and Arya were entirely different. It was on more than on occasion where she caught herself wondering which bond was stronger: the bond between her two misfit siblings or the seemingly unbreakable bond between Robb and the brother she had always overlooked as ‘the bastard’.

Except ‘the bastard’ had been declared king and Arya had appeared out of nowhere at the gates of Winterfell so it was that exact bond which had her so concerned. Arya had admitted to returning to the North on the news that Jon Snow had been made king. It had been Jon who Arya had returned for, not herself, not Bran. It was Jon that Arya spoke of with the slightest touch of pride to her voice. She had clearly been intrigued of the way that their brother had been elected King in the North. It was certainly clear in the way that she promised to do anything for their bastard brother, including her pledge to fight the Army of the Dead, which had previously only existed to her in the ghost stories told to them all by Old Nan on warm summer nights. Arya had disappeared for years and returned as a warrior eager to jump into battle.

But she knew nothing of politics, knew nothing of schemes, she knew nothing of the ways in which power could slip through your grasp as easily as silk thread. And so it was Sansa who found herself fighting to keep the peace and fighting to keep control in the bleakest of situations. She knew that, to her sister, it would appear as if she were only working to her own advantage. It didn’t seem to matter to Arya that the Lords of the North were fickle, that they could easily unmake pull Jon from the position they had elevated him to. And if that were to happen, what would happen to them? What _would_ happen if the volatile Lords of the North decided that a Stark was unfit to lead? She had already lost her home once.

She wasn’t about to lose it again.

She had fought for her life in King’s Landing and fought again under Ramsey’s control. She wasn’t going to lose it now.

Then Arya had presented her with the scrap of paper that she had so easily forgotten about so long ago and Sansa had lost her thoughts to the ever growing worry and confusion that had settled inside her.

Because what _would_ the Northern lords think if Arya revealed the letter to Robb? Would they believe that she had been forced into writing it? No, there had not been a blade to her throat when they had set the quill in her hand because where Cersei was concerned, no blade was needed. The twisted witch had tortured her just fine without one.

Sansa took to pacing about the castle in the days after the encounter. Her mind racing because of how unsettling it was to see her younger sister behave in such a threatening manner, especially when the threats were towards herself.

And against her own hesitations, Sansa had turned to Lord Baelish in fear. He had made it clear on a number of occasions that his goal was to see her on the throne, which meant that he would protect her alongside his own interests, or so she hoped. Lord Baelish was forever scheming and after she had brought her concern over Arya to him, he had only begun to scheme against her own sister. Her concerns in regards to Arya were troublesome enough without Petyr whispering his own thoughts and worries everywhere she turned. It was obvious that he was more suspicious of Arya than Sansa herself was. He had made his own dislike for her quite clear when they had spoken together the day that Arya had presented her with the incriminating letter. The way he spoke of Arya made it clear that the Lord Protector of the Vale was threatened.

He was threatened by the possibility that Arya could disrupt his own plans for Sansa and the North, was threatened by the idea that Brienne would stand between the sisters. Petyr was threatened by the possibility that he was no longer _in control_ and because he was threatened, he was also dangerous.

After she had informed Baelish of the letter that Arya possessed, he had jumped at the opportunity to speak against her sister and in every day following their conversation, he had pushed her to make a decision. When Arya failed to appear for every meal, Lord Baelish had made his opinion on the situation quite clear. _‘What would she do? Would she call the lords to confront her sister? Would she confront her publicly in Winterfell with only Lord Royce and the Knights of the Vale to stand behind her? Would their brother accept that she had been forced to act in her own defense?’_

He didn’t directly say what he thought she would have to do. But he didn’t need to.

His suggestions were rattling her nerves and each night, she found herself pacing through the castle. On this particular night, she found a kind of peace in the quiet of the empty Great Hall. It was there, standing at the foot of the High Table, that she was able to stop and think about everything that had come to pass in such a short amount of time.

“Lady Sansa.”

A soft voice spoke and broke her concentration from where she had been staring out the window towards the godswoods. She turned to see Podrick Payne make his way across the hall in order to stand beside her. She smiled as he approached. In the years that she had known him, she had started to hold a form of affection for the older squire. He had served Lord Tyrion loyally, followed Lady Brienne faithfully, and even protected her against Ramsey’s men when she had escaped to the North. Gone were the days when she feared him for his family’s name.

“Podrick.” She greeted him warmly. Though their years together had helped to ease the awkwardness between the two of them, Sansa would, on an occasion like today, still catch Podrick stumbling over his words whenever he addressed her. Though she was thankful that he no longer turned a brilliant shade of red whenever their gazes met.

Usually.

“Lady Brienne sent me to find you. We were training in the courtyard when three wagon loads of grain arrived from Castle Hornwood with a letter from Wylla Manderly.”

Sansa nodded at his explanation and turned back to look out the window, distracted by the heavy snow that was now falling. It fell so thick that it was difficult to see more than a foot beyond the window pane. She stared in silence, aware that the squire was watching her and comforted by his apparent understanding of her need for the quiet.

Her siblings were _alive_. After being separated for so long, after losing so many loved ones, her siblings had _returned alive_. And even though they were facing the Longest Night and the threat of the Mad Queen to the South, Sansa couldn’t deny that being near her siblings brought a sense of safety back to her, something that only being a part of a pack could explain. She had felt it when she had first locked eyes with Jon at Castle Black. And she had felt it when Bran had arrived with Meera Reed in the back of a wagon. Nothing that Arya said or accused her of could shake away the security of knowing that she was not the only Stark in Winterfell.

From the lords’ point of view, it would look as if she _had_ married her family’s enemies to gain control in the North for herself and the letter would only give proof that he had sided with the Lannisters all those years ago. Arya had enough memories of their time in King’s Landing to back up her own theories. Sansa had left Winterfell as a child on the promise that she would be queen and in that time, she had sided with Joffrey on more than one occasion. When their dear father had tried to get them home safely, she had cried and protested by saying that all she had wanted was to marry Joffrey, to be his queen. How would that look to the Northern lords? The very same lords who had rode out with Robb to fight for their independence. The very same lords who had turned their backs on her when she had been looking to destroy the Boltons?

Strengthened by her determination, Sansa turned to the squire standing beside her. “Podrick, if I were to ask a question, would you answer truthfully?”

“Of course, my lady.” He answered quickly.

She met his deep brown gaze and stared for longer than she had intended, doing her best to gather her own concerns before she voiced them. It was only when Podrick’s cheeks began to redden that she realized how uncomfortable she must make him. Inhaling sharply, she turned away from the young man and turned back to the window.

“Do you ever hear anyone speak of me, Podrick? Do you hear anyone talk about my work as Lady of Winterfell?”

“Of course, my lady.” He repeated, his voice a touch higher than usual. “The women and men of the castle praise you for how much you have done since retaking Winterfell. They speak of the way you have helped the castle folk and people of Winter Town prepare for this long winter. You are admired.”

Poor Podrick, she mused. His face was now bright red with his clear embarrassment and in the furthest reach of her mind, a soft voice spoke of how endearing it was to see such a handsome man blush because of her.

She silenced the voice and shook her head forcibly. She had asked the question with a specific purpose and hoped that he would answer. “That’s all very well but I meant if you had heard anyone speak _negatively_ of my work.”

“My lady?” He was now looking at her in confusion with a locked, furrowed brow.

Sansa sighed and turned back to the window. “Never you mind. Forgive me for asking.”

In the quiet of the hall, she could hear his footsteps as he moved towards her. “No, my lady, it’s just … I apologize. You …” He fell silent as he seemed to fight with his own words. She knew that he was struggling to not stammer, as he had done so often as a squire under Lord Tyrion.

“It is fine, Podrick. I only wondered.”

“Lady Sansa …” He began. His heavy footsteps sounded once more and she could now hear him behind her. “Forgive me, but if you’re troubled…”

Sansa was touched by his honesty and knew that it took a great deal for him to say such a thing to her, the Lady of Winterfell. His concern for her helped to soothe some of her own racing thoughts. She turned slowly, deciding to answer him just as honestly. “I have a great deal of troubles, Podrick. I sometimes wish to hear the opinion of others.”

The squire who stood before her, so close that she could reach out to touch his arm if she so dared, looked back at her with such a tenderness that she had not seen in years. Brienne looked at her with care and concern, her mind always focused on her safety. The lords looked at her with frustration and contempt because of the situation that Jon had left her with. Lord Baelish only ever looked at her with his poorly hidden lust, for both her body and the power she held.

But Podrick? He looked as if her own concerns had physically hurt him and it made him all the more endearing.

“I am sure the lords would offer you their opinions.”

She nodded and took a step back, suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness. Her blue gaze traveled back to the heavy snow outside. “Lady Brienne and my brother are here to advise me as well.” Sansa assured him, though why she did, she didn’t know.

“You also have your sister, my lady.” Podrick reminded her gently.

His comment struck Sansa with surprise and her blue gaze turned back to the squire abruptly, staring after him long after he had excused himself to go and return to Lady Brienne.

Did the young Payne observe more than he let on?

Sansa leaned against the stone wall of the high window, her thoughts muddled and unfocused. It was a night like that when she could understand why Tyrion and Cersei had turned to drinking wine so often. More and more lords were returning to their holdfast on the orders to send another shipment of grain, though she knew they would never directly voice their objection or criticisms. In the days since her argument with Arya, she and her sister had gone without speaking. They passed one another in the Great Hall the day after the argument and in that time, Sansa had not seen her sister since. It was as if the younger Stark sister had disappeared entirely.

Surely if Arya had planned to say something to the lords, she would have done so already.

Her fingers traced over the Stark sigil that she had sewn into the heavy fabric of her dress. She _would try_ to understand how her position would look to an outsider. Her father had died and while Arya had been able to orchestrate her own escape, she had been a young girl left behind to be used as a pawn in the game of court and war. She had been trapped in the lions’ den while her family had lost their lives for the North. She had been forced into the marriage with Tyrion, though there wasn’t anyone to act as a witness in her defense that she had been wed unwillingly. Just as the only one to act as a witness to her forced marriage to Ramsey would be Lord Baelish, and he _would always_ put his own life before anyone else, even her own.

The letter was as much a threat to the North as it was to her own life. And though her sister had not voiced her decision on what she would do with the scroll, Sansa couldn’t let herself take any chance. There were too many options, too many variables. Everything was uncertain in that moment. All it would take was one wrong word spoken against Jon or one word not said in his defense for Arya to decide that she no longer deserved to call herself the Lady of Winterfell. Arya quite literally held her fate in the palm of her hand.

How could one small scroll cause so much trouble?

Podrick’s mention of her sister brought her back to their argument above the courtyard. It was unsettling just how easily Arya had been able to discern her fears. It was almost as if her sister had been reading her very thoughts. Was she truly that transparent or was Arya as good at reading people as she was at killing them? What could he have meant by saying that she had her sister to act as an adviser as well?

The Arya she remembered from their childhood had been outspoken and carefree. That Arya had sneered at the idea of being a lady. She had wanted to be a knight and had spent every free moment with their brothers, chasing after Bran and Rickon while not giving a damn about her hair or dresses or what people thought of her. That Arya had smiled. She had laughed.

 _‘That’s not who she is anymore.’_ Sansa realized with a heavy sadness. The young woman who called herself Arya appeared calm and lethal. It had been weeks and she had yet to see her sister _truly_ smile in the way that she had smiled so often as a child, the smile that seemed to light her gray gaze as well as everything else in the room. She had seemed more emotion escape Arya in the few minutes during their argument than she had seen in all of Arya’s time since returning to Winterfell. Sansa fought to understand her sister’s anger as she took to walking throughout the castle halls once more.

_‘I’ll go with anger.’_

Remembering the cold tone in her sister’s voice brought back the same shiver that had overcome her after hearing Arya say it the first time. At the end of the day, Arya was still her sister. She was still a part of her family. But Sansa still felt threatened.

The girl from her memories was wild, carefree, and she had worn her wolf’s blood on her sleeve. The Arya who had returned was calculating. Her Stark gray eyes were always watching, always waiting. She would be lying if she said those changes didn’t scare her. Because Arya had disappeared only to reappear as an entirely new person and it was that unsettling realization that she just couldn’t shake. The Arya of her memory would always be the smiling scrap of a sister and not the cold young woman who stood in shadows and listened for whispers among the noise.

Her stomach twisted painfully at the thought of what could happen, of what she would have to do. When it came to it, Sansa worried she would be faced with a difficult decision. Would she have to put her own sister’s life before her own? Before the safety of the North?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite Stark women are too smart to have been led into distrusting one another so easily, in my opinion. Rewatching S7 brought up so many questions regarding Sansa and her decision to go to Littlefinger when she had been putting distance between them ever since the end of Season 6. I don't think she would have easily run to Baelish with her concerns about Arya but I do think that once she voiced them in that scene, he wouldn't have just let her fears about Arya go. I firmly believe that he sang like the mockingbird he is and repeated Sansa's fears back to her until she was truly afraid for her life. 
> 
> Then we have Podrick. Sweet, caring Pod. He is one of my favorite characters just because he appears to be so wholesome and can serve as such great comedic relief. 
> 
> I apologize if this chapter doesn't make any sense but in the overall attempt to improve what they stole from us in S7, I hope it helps. I wanted to work out how Sansa went from truly believing that Arya would kill her to trusting her sister to be the one to execute Littlefinger in the finale. 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Opinions?


	8. Run (Gendry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s voice rang in his ears, trusting him above all the others to make it back, to save them all.
> 
> Damn those Starks.

**GENDRY**

Seven hells, he was freezing.

It was a cold that seeped into his bones, numbed his muscles, and messed with his mind. He jumped at every noise that he heard above the sound of blaring wind and swore that it would leave him deaf if he survived. It was the kind of wind that he had only seen on a handful of occasions when powerful storms from the sea had ripped through King's Landing only to leave a trail of destruction behind them. This wind was the same. Powerful enough to knock the air from his chest and to knock himself to the ground when a gale caught him at a certain angle. And all he can see ahead of him, behind him, and around him was snow and ice and rock. He couldn’t let himself think about the pain that had already settled in his muscles and his chest. He forced himself to think of others things.

Which proved to be a mistake.

He didn’t know if it would be the cold that killed him or the memories. The Northern winds whipped around him to pull the air from his lungs before he even managed to draw proper breath. It sent an icy shiver through his body, something that was all consuming. He tried his best to focus on the two simplest things: running and breathing. But his mind still drifted elsewhere.

The King in the North. Jon Snow. _Arya’s brother_. Jon and the men were counting on him to make it back to Eastwatch. The men would be stranded in the middle of a frozen nowhere and their fate rested on his ability to run south when the wind was blowing the snow so hard that he could barely see a foot in front of where he was going. But Jon had trusted and believed in him to save them all.

So he ran.

He ran in the direction from which they had come and prayed to any god who would listen that he would make it back in time to send for help. The Seven had never answered any of his prayers and the Lord of Light had only wanted his blood. So maybe, just maybe, the old gods would be the ones to listen this time. He was almost as far North as anyone could get. If anyone were to hear his prayers, it would be them.

Because Gendry knew that he would need all the gods, old and new, Drowned and Light, if he didn’t manage to save Jon Snow. The ghost of Arya Stark would haunt him for an eternity if he failed. He had pretended to be annoyed by the way that the young Stark could ramble about her brother but at the end of the day when she had _finally_ started to be quiet, he found himself thinking about what having a brother would have been like. He found himself thinking about what having a family would have been like. The memories of her came rushing back as he remembered the fire in her steel gray eyes that always seemed to burn brighter whenever he had annoyed her, which had been more often than not because towards the end, he had started to do it on purpose just to get a spark from the she-wolf. It had been all too easy to do because nobody could manage to get under their skin like the way they did for one another.

It was the memory of the fire in her eyes that kept him running even when the tips of his fingers, ears, and nose had started to freeze. The memory of her made his heart ache but the idea of letting her down was something that he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

A memory of her talking about Jon swirled around him like the snowy wind that blurred his vision. Once she had trusted him with her identity, she wouldn’t shut up with tales of the North, of Winterfell, of her bastard brother that she had loved so much. There were stories spoken on horseback or whispered into the night’s fire but each time she had brought up Jon, her gray eyes brightened with happiness. It was those stories that drew him to her because of the way that she spoke out in defense of her brother, reasoning that it wasn’t his fault he had been born a Snow. Arya Stark may have been a lord’s daughter but she saw the world in a way that he could only dream of doing.

He remembered being foolish. He remembered dreaming a future where the annoying slip of a girl could stay the best friend that he had considered her to be. In the dream, he went North and was recognized for the role that he had played in bringing her home. But those hopes had been torn apart when he had made it back to Flea Bottom and heard the rumors about the Red Wedding.

A massive gust of wind blew through him, nearly knocking him over.

 _‘You’ll never survive the North.’_ She had whispered teasingly after finding him shivering by a fire one evening after a cold rain had left them all soaked.

He had laughed. _‘I’m not the one who tucks her feet behind me because they get cold every night. Are Northern girls even supposed to get cold?’_ She had shoved him then. She was always shoving him. And he would always laugh.

A snow drift collapsed beneath him and sent him tumbling down the incline, knocking the breath from him as he fell. Gendry struggled to regain his footing, falling back down twice before face planting in the snow once more.

How long had he been running?

He had to get up. He had come too far to die in the frozen nowhere. There were people counting on him. Jon was counting on him. It didn’t matter that his legs had given out and that his breath felt like actual fire in his lungs. All that mattered was that he made it back to Eastwatch in time for Daenerys to make it beyond the Wall. It was a crazy plan but it was the only one that they had. The Queen and her dragons were the only thing standing between Jon and the Army of the Dead. He tried his best not to think about how long it would take for a raven to even make it across half of Westeros in enough time. He forced it to the back of his mind.

He was running again after falling flat on his face for what felt like the hundredth time.

Gendry knew that the plan would work. It had to work. He had seen the way that the Dragon Queen and Jon had looked at one another before they had sailed from Dragonstone and though Jon would never admit it, there was a great deal of unresolved tension between the two. The King in the North fancied the Dragon Queen, of that he was certain. It was obvious in the way that Jon often lost his train of thought or stammered whenever someone called him back to attention. Davos himself had teased the bastard king about it on more than one occasion as they sailed to the Wall.

Daenerys would fly north with her dragons. He knew that she would. He just had to make it to Eastwatch first.

Jon’s voice rang in his ears, trusting him above all the others to make it back, to save them all.

Damn those Starks.

He wasn’t going to give up. He couldn’t give up. Not on the men. Not on Jon. Not on her.

Not when she had fought so hard to keep them both alive all those years before.

Thoros’ words from the night before caught him. He had just _assumed_ that she had died at the Twins all those years before because that’s where the Brotherhood had planned to take it. But what if the Red Priest had been right? What if Arya was alive? Would they both find their way back to Winterfell in order to fight off the army of dead creatures that were making their way south? A part of him knew that if anyone would survive all the grief and danger that existed in this world that it would be someone as strong and stubborn as Arya Stark.

It was another reason why he had to keep running. Failing Jon would be like failing Arya and he couldn’t fail his best friend. Just as he hadn’t been able to look Jon in the eye to tell him about his time traveling with his younger sister, he couldn’t imagine learning that Arya was alive only to have to look her in the eye and tell her that her brother had died because of him.

_‘Run. Run you stupid, stubborn, idiotic bull.’_

His chest was burning with the icy breath that he gasped in. His legs were burning from exhaustion. Every part of him that had been exposed to the cold air was a part of him that he could no longer feel.

But he kept running.

. . .                          . . .                          . . .

Leagues away in Winterfell, Arya woke, panicked and confused. It had been the first time she truly dreamt of Gendry in moons. And she felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but it's back! Have any of you ever sprained your wrist and thumb before? It makes typing downright awkward. 
> 
> Anyways, I am sure that most would agree that Season 8 has proved to be ... interesting. I gave myself the chance to go back to rewatch Season 7 and wow. We didn't know how good we had it. At least there will be plenty of missed opportunities in Season 8 to fill in as the summer draws near. 
> 
> There is still the Sansa/Arya/Littlefinger plot that I have watched and rewatched in order to determine just WHEN Sansa had gone to Bran seeking advice and then there will be the emotions that Dany and Jon were forced to face and admit when he had returned from the Wall. I know that everyone is focused on Season 8 but I couldn't just abandon what we had been denied in Season 7 either.


	9. Something (Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on the turmoil within Winterfell. There just seems to be something about Arya...

**SANSA**

 

The world was ending.

An army of the dead was marching for them, her younger brother had returned as some sort of greenseer, and her sister had a bag of faces.

_Faces._

Yes, the world was certainly ending.

She hadn’t known what to expect when she had found her sister in the family crypts those weeks before. Arya had disappeared from King’s Landing all those years before and she had thought her dead up until Brienne had told her about coming across Arya and The Hound in the Riverlands in her search for the Stark girls. But the Arya Stark who had returned to Winterfell was someone that she didn’t know any longer, someone that she wasn’t sure she could still consider to be family.

Sansa stared down at the dagger that Arya had handed to her that afternoon when she had been caught in her chambers. Tales whispered by Old Nan came to mind. Tales of men who changed faces and lived in shadows. A cold shiver ran through her as she remembered the satchel underneath his sister’s bed. Arya had killed people. Did she want to kill her too?

She couldn’t believe it, not just yet. Her sister may have returned as a stranger but they were still family. They had lost too many people and had been through too much to turn on one another. It wasn’t who they were, even if they had never gotten along as children. They were still Starks. That had to mean something.

Because there was _something_ about the way Arya acted that irked her. It was something in the way her sister spoke and the way she watched everyone that made her feel as if there was more to the story. Yet she couldn’t be sure because if it were true then why would Arya have gone off searching for the raven scroll that could turn the North against her? Arya hadn’t even known of the scroll’s existence until she had found it, of that she could be certain was true. There was no way for Arya to have known of it. Sansa herself had even forgotten about the dreaded scroll until Arya had confronted her with it.

She had panicked, just as she had panicked when Arya had appeared out of nowhere in her own chambers that afternoon when she had gone searching for the scroll. Her sister had always been so bloody loud. Now she was unnervingly quiet. Sansa looked back down at the dagger. It was the blade that had started the war, in a way. It had brought about the deaths of her father, mother, and brothers. Why had Arya given it to her?

_‘You try to make the lies sound like the truth.’_

What _was_ the truth?

Frustrated and afraid, Sansa took off for the godswood. Lord Baelish would only speak against Arya as he had done before but Bran? Bran may have returned as a shell of himself but she still hoped there was enough left of him to offer her council. Because if it came down to it, if she was faced with no other outcome than to act against her sister, she didn’t want to stand alone. Maybe they could send Arya away? She could go to Dragonstone to stay with Jon. He had always been her favorite. He would welcome her there and it would keep Arya away from the lords who were always so eager to turn on them when given the chance.

Sansa’s next shiver had nothing to do with the cold of the godswood and everything to do with the cold, calculating look that Arya had given her that afternoon. Her sister had become a different sort of dangerous and she wasn’t entirely sure how to handle the development.

Bran’s monotonous voice broke through her troubles. He remained where he could always be found those days, seated at the heart tree while wrapped in layers of furs. He spoke to her but the way he practically looked through her with a blank, unfeeling stare was unsettling.

“You have questions,” was all that he said. Sansa raised her brow.

“You know then? About Arya? About what she is?” The Lady of Winterfell demanded. The terror of finding the faces had returned. She still hadn’t managed to process what it could actually mean. Inhaling deeply to steady herself, Sansa moved to stand in front of Bran’s chair. Her blues eyes searched his face for _any_ sign of emotion. “Bran, if you know something then you have to tell me. I – I don’t know what to do. She has a letter…”

Her brother remained silent as he turned his head away from her in order to stare out towards the skyline. The two Starks remained silent as one did her best to maintain control over her emotions and the other appeared to have no emotion whatsoever. Frustrated, Sansa moved to take Bran’s hand in her own, squeezing in tightly as if trying to squeeze a response through his fingertips.

“If you can see anything … anything at all … should I be afraid of Arya?”

Bran turned his face slowly until he was facing her once more, though his face remained blank. “There is nothing to tell. I see No One.”

Sansa dropped Bran’s cold hand and stood quickly with her terror and frustration threatening to boil over. Reaching beneath her cloak, Sansa withdrew the catspaw dagger and held it out to the man she still thought of as her brother. “Did you see what she said to me? Did you see the threat?”

“I saw No One.” Bran repeated. His gaze grew distant once more.

“Hopeless,” muttered Sansa as she turned on her heel to leave the godswood. Chances were that she would never truly understand why her brother was the way that he was but there had been a tiny part of her who had wished for his sincere input. After everyone who had betrayed and sought to hurt her, she wasn’t sure that she would ever be able to handle even the _idea_ that her own sister would want to hurt her as well. Yes, they had never been close but they were still family. Didn’t that mean something to Arya?

Frustrated with herself and her siblings, she made her way back to her bedchamber where she knew that she wouldn’t be bothered. She needed time and a quiet place in order to think through everything that had occurred.

Bran’s lack of help had been troubling. She knew that most of it should be attributed to the Three Eyed Raven nonsense that he always spoke of but what if it was something more? Arya and Bran had fought as children but they had always managed to stay close. She could somehow still clearly remember the sound of the two of them laughing. They were always the ones to climb all over the castle, tear their clothes, and show up to supper as dirty as ever.

Had Arya played on those memories? Had she somehow managed to pull even the slightest sense of emotion from their sibling in order to turn him against her? She was the odd man out no matter what and she knew it. She could _feel_ it.

Did Bran and Arya know something that she didn’t?

It was an extremely troubling thought that made her feel as if she were back in King’s Landing or in the Vale. Sansa was surrounded by people but she still felt stranded and alone.

The thought was not only troubling but exhausting as well. Her brief talk with Bran had made her feel as if all the energy had been drained from her with that one conversation. The Lady of Winterfell retired to her chambers early that evening and sat at her desk with her open ledgers, wondering what her next step would be and fearful of what was to come.

. . .              . . .              . . .

Sansa jumped.

Pulled from her dreams at the sound of someone knocking at her door, she sat up and looked around. Bewildered for a moment, she took the time to address her surroundings as she realized that she had fallen asleep at her own desk. With a deep inhale to steady herself, Sansa called for the person outside her door to enter and was unsurprised to see her lady’s maid.

“Selanne, what is it?”

Her maid bowed her head. “Beg pardon, m’lady but it’s your brother. Lord Brandon wishes to see you in his chambers.”

Sansa stilled. Her brother hadn’t wanted to speak with her earlier. What made now any different than before? “My brother?”

“Yes, m’lady. He returned from the godswood and asked after you.” Selanne paused. “He said for you to bring what Lady Arya gave you.”

 _The dagger_.

Sansa stood. The candles in her room had burned low so it would have to be late, judging by the silence that also haunted the halls as she made her way to Bran’s room on the ground floor. She did her best to steady her breathing but it was impossible. Her mind was racing at the same pace. What could Bran want with her in the middle of the night? Had he seen something in his visions? Were they in danger? Every possible scenario raced through her mind as she drew a shaky breath and raised a trembling hand to knock against the wood.

Her brother spoke softly from the other side and she pulled at the door, shutting it behind her after tossing one last glance over her shoulder to ensure that she hadn’t been followed. Bran remained in his chair in the dimly lit room. The only source of light was what the flickering flames gave them. Sansa squinted as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

“What do you need me for?” She questioned, moving closer to her brother’s side. “Have you seen something? Why did you send for me?” Bran remained sitting silently as he stared into the flames without an answer.

It was another voice that spoke.

“We both have something to learn.” The cold voice spoke. Sansa turned towards the noise and jumped as Arya emerged from the shadows. She had scanned the room when she had first arrived and could have sworn that Bran had been _alone_.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa demanded, her voice eerily similar to what it had sounded like when Arya had caught her searching her room. She cursed herself for feeling so terrified. Had this been a trap?

Bran’s emotionless tone broke through. “You both are here because you need to know. Lord Baelish is working against us.”

“Lord Baelish?” Sansa questioned. She flinched as Arya moved closer.

“The raven scroll I confronted you with? I found it in his chambers _after_ I watched Maester Wolkan retrieve it at the worm’s request. He was the one who dug it up from the past. But my first thought was that it may have been done on your own orders.”

“My orders? But why-“

“He’s been talking to the lords, talking about you and Jon.”

“You’ve seen this?” Sansa turned slightly to stare at their younger brother. “Did you know?”

Bran gave the slightest shake of his head. “My focus has been on the Night King. But I know of Lord Baelish and what he has done.” He paused, his cold gaze on both his sisters. “And you both should know as well. The Night King is marching towards the Wall. Plots amongst the men will only weaken our defense.”

It was Arya’s turn to speak. Her brow raised slightly as she turned to look at her sister. “We’re family but I wasn’t sure I could trust you. I _knew_ that I couldn’t trust Littlefinger. He started plotting as soon as I arrived in Winterfell. It’s been his plan to turn the lords against Jon and to make you Queen. Is that what you want?” Arya asked coldly with her brow raised.

“You _know_ I don’t.” She hoped that her irritability was enough to mask her fear.

“He told you that he sees himself on the Iron Throne, that he sees you at his side.” Bran interrupted, as emotionless as ever. Sansa’s stomach twisted at the memory and she glanced at Arya. Her sister’s expression remained as unreadable as ever but she continued to watch as Bran went on to speak.

“He’s been behind everything. He made our Aunt Lysa believe he loved her so that she would poison Jon Arryn with Tears of Lys. On his orders, she sent a raven to our parents telling them that the Lannisters were responsible. It was the start of the War of the Five Kings and he was behind all of it.” Sansa remained silent as she processed the new information that she had been given. She had stopped trusting Lord Baelish years ago but he had been her ally at times. His treacherous ways had been revealed to her the moment that he had helped to kill Joffrey but she had needed safety while in the Eyrie and needed the Knights of the Vale to retake Winterfell. It was the only reason that she continued to tolerate him.

“What else has he done?” Sansa demanded, knowing that it was time to learn the whole truth. He knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists in preparation to hear all her suspicions confirmed.

And they were.

Bran told them of everything that Lord Baelish had done, from plotting against Jon in the recent weeks to the role that he had to play in the war.

“The dagger.” Bran mentioned and Sansa reached within the pockets of her dress to where she had concealed the blade. “This dagger has the blood of Starks on it. All because Lord Baelish told Catelyn Stark that it belonged to Tyrion Lannister, leading her to take him prisoner in the Riverlands.”

“Who did it really belong to?” Sansa questioned as she did her best to keep her anger in check. Bran only turned to hand the blade back to Arya.

“No One.” He answered simply.

Arya sheathed the blade at her belt and turned back to her. “I had my suspicions but Bran confirmed them after a while. I _tried_ to tell you, in my own way, but I also needed to see how you would react to everything. You do want the support of the Northern lords because we do need them. But when I confronted you about the raven scroll, I knew you weren’t lying. You’re a terrible liar.”

Sansa could have _sworn_ that she saw the faintest trace of a smile on Arya’s face but it was gone just as quickly as it came. She smiled on her own, admitting the truth in Arya’s statement. “I am sorry. Cersei and Lord Baelish were telling me to write the letter to save Father and Robb. I didn’t think-“

“It’s okay.” Arya said simply as she turned away from Sansa and back to Bran. “What else should we know about Littlefinger?”

Bran lifted his chin slightly to meet Arya’s gaze. “He likes to play games. He turns people against one another. It’s what he’s trying to do to the two of you.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Arya said firmly. Sansa felt a warmth in her chest at her sister’s declaration. It was the most that Arya had seemed like her younger self since she had returned home. “But I am trying to understand what all that he’s been responsible for. If you were under his protection in the Vale, how did you end up with the Boltons?” Her sister’s gaze was narrowed and dark.

Sansa inhaled deeply to steady her emotions. She drew herself up to full height as a rush of painful memories came flooding back. The sting of the whip. The cut of the knife. The burn of the flame. They had never truly left her. She had only pushed them away.

Thankfully, it was Bran who saved her from having to explain. “He sold her.” Their brother answered coldly. “He wanted control over the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North. He could get that through Sansa.” His dark gaze met her own as he looked up to her. Sansa did her best not to give in to the memories that were chasing her. “But you stayed with him before that because he saved you from Aunt Lysa.”

She nodded and dipped her chin, doing her best to avoid meeting Arya’s gaze. A heavy sigh escaped her sister at the same moment. “I knew about the Boltons but I didn’t know about Ramsey.” Arya paused. “Men like that…”

“He’s gone. It’s all that matters.” Sansa rushed, hoping to put the conversation behind them. She wasn’t ready to talk about it, especially with Arya. Fearsome, terrifying Arya who must only see her as someone who was weak.  

“Except Littlefinger isn’t gone and he was the cause behind it all.” Her sister reasoned. “He betrayed our family and manipulated us into a war with the Lannisters and now he’s trying to turn us against one another. But I need to know where he stands with you. What he is to you.”

“Lord Baelish is … useful.” Sansa answered in a passive tone.

A scoffed escaped Arya. “I know the look in a man’s eye when he’s plotting, just as I know the look men give when they see a threat … and when they lust after a woman.” Her hard, dark eyes met her own. “He desires you, Sansa.”

“He … loved our mother.” She countered, unsure of how to fully explain her complicated relationship with the meddling, troublesome man. “Though he has always looked out for his own interests, obviously.”

“Then why is he still alive?” Arya demanded in a hushed whisper, though Sansa could hear the frustration in her voice.

A silence fell between the two young women. Both had a past that they weren’t quite ready to discuss with one another but facing a threat to their family, their blood, would be different. But there they stood, in the dark of night in the middle of their brother’s chamber. Though she found Arya unsettling, she knew that her sister deserved the truth. “My desire to escape Cersei forced me into Petyr’s hands and if I could have escaped in any other way then I would have. My only concern now is the Knights of the Vale. We need them to fight the Night King.”

“They will remain loyal to you.” Bran interrupted. “Lord Royce has never trusted Littlefinger.” He looked from one sister to another. “And he is responsible for more than either of you know.”

Sansa turned and met Arya’s gaze, a chill running through her at their brother’s words. She had seen Baelish turn against many people. She had watched him turn on herself.

_What more could he be responsible for?_


	10. Frustrating (Gendry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry struggles to deal with the guilt of leaving Jon behind as they sail towards King's Landing and prepare for the summit. His friendship with Arya remains a secret and never seems to be far from his mind.

**GENDRY**

 

Those who returned from beyond the Wall moved throughout the Night’s Watch fort in stunned silence. Their mission had been accomplished. The wight had been secured below the deck of the borrowed Targaryen ship while everyone attempted to prepare to sail for King’s Landing. But for all those involved, they felt as if they had lost far more than they had gained.

_The King in the North is missing._

It was a hushed whisper that carried louder than any dragon’s roar and Gendry felt the weight of the whisper as much as the rest of them, if not more. _I failed him. I left him behind and I failed him. Which means I failed her._ He hadn’t wanted to leave anyone behind, especially when it came to Arya’s brother. What had been the point to it all if they had lost their king? His mind swirled with thoughts of losing his newfound purpose and the frustrating sting of failure.

Davos and the Dragon Queen felt it too. He could tell by the way they both paced throughout the fort and ignored the suggestions that they should set sail. Queen Daenerys had taken to waiting atop the Wall, her two remaining dragons circling around their mother as she waited for a sign, _any sign_ , that Jon Snow had somehow survived the army of dead men. He hadn’t been there but hearing Tormund recount the group’s escape from the frozen lake had chilled him to the bone and he knew that it would be the vision he saw in his nightmares for days to come. But he had also heard the stories from Davos about the King’s return from death before and just like the sagacious advisor, he too believed that a man wouldn’t survive an ordeal like that only to die at the hands of wights.

It was the blow from the horn that sent him rushing towards the gate.

One blast.

A rider approaches.

_Seven hells_.

Gendry reached the gate just as they were carrying him through. His stomach churned at the sight of their leader, blue and stiff and frozen. “Carry ‘im to the ship.” Davos ordered. “It’ll all be for naught if we miss that meetin’.”

“How is he alive?” Gendry questioned as he helped to lift Jon so that he and the others could carry him towards the docks.

“He’s breathin’. That’s all that mat’ers.” Davos explained as he followed behind the group of them that were carrying the King. Gendry was distracted from the advisor’s bark of commands when he saw a silver figure approach the beach. _Daenerys_.

The Dragon Queen followed with caution and disbelief as they moved quickly to get the King aboard the ship and into his cabin. With a nod from Davos, he and Gendry worked to break away the skins that were frozen to the man’s chest. Jon’s body began to shake and shiver in his unconscious state.

“Son.” Davos broke his focus away from where he had been trying to not stare at the angry red mark directly above the King’s heart. He met the older man’s gaze and nodded. Hot water in wineskins. Warmed blankets.

They had done the same for him just a few days prior.

Gendry worked his way across the cabin to collect the extra furs before he excused himself so that he could retrieve the remaining supplies from other cabins. As he turned, he recognized a stunned Daenerys Targaryen standing in the cabin doorway. She was paler than usual with her fists clenched at her sides as she watched the scene unfold before her. The queen’s eyes were dark with a fearful pain that Gendry felt himself. It was the look of concern for a loved one in danger. He forced the breath from his body in a huff, cursing himself once more for leaving Jon behind.

_I still failed him._ Gendry through with a stab of frustrating disappointment. Jon Snow was at the edge of Death’s door because he had left him behind.

_And it means I failed her._

. . .              . . .               . . .

Everyone waited in their anxious state of uncertainty for three days. Three days of whispers and unspoken questions. Three days of speculation.

The Queen spent the most of her time at the King in the North’s side, only leaving in order to rest for a few hours at a time after spending the rest of the day attending to the needs and concerns of her advisor as they discussed the best way to approach the meeting in King’s Landing. But she would always return to King Jon’s side before retiring, silently praying for any sign that he would wake. Such an act of devotion was difficult to watch. Nobody who sailed with them could deny the fact that the Targaryen queen felt something for the Stark son. Her fierce determination to ensure his survival was heartwarming for them all.

And it was she who first came to find Davos that third evening where he stood with Gendry. The two were also discussing their plans for once they arrived at the capital. The young queen wore a broken smile but Gendry could recognize the clear look of relief in her violet Targaryen eyes. “Your King is awake and resting.” She explained. A sigh of relief escaped him and he heard the same from Davos. Daenerys smiled warmly. “He remembers what happened but he is understandably very tired.”

“He’ll need warm food.” Davos pointed out, nodding towards Gendry. The smith left the two with a respectful nod in the Dragon Queen’s direction. His own small part of relief was fighting to take hold.

Maybe he hadn’t failed the Starks after all.

Gendry made his way down to the supply cabin where the cauldron of broth was still warm from their morning meal. He stoked the fire and waited for it to grow hotter while also moving to collect any and everything he could find in the stores. A short while later, he made his way back towards the King’s cabin with as much food as he could carry. After turning the corner, he saw Davos sitting at the King’s bedside, already quietly explaining just how close they were to Dragonstone before he stopped in order to protest against Jon’s attempt to sit up.

Gendry couldn’t help but to laugh. The king’s stubborn determination was familiar. A painful jolt shot through him as he remembered _why_ it was familiar. He inhaled deeply and sighed in order to calm himself, forcing the memories away and to the back of his mind. Both Jon and Davos turned at the sound of his arrival and Gendry smiled. “Listen to Davos. You’re about to face the most murderous woman in Westeros. You’re going to need your strength.”

Jon reluctantly fell back against the furs, scowling while also trying to hide his smile at being reunited with his new friend.

“Glad you survived.”

“Same t’you. Although we thought your ass was a goner for a good while there. You gave us all a pretty good scare.”

Jon winced as he chuckled in response but leaned forwards in order to accept the bowl of broth and brown bread from Gendry. “Who all sailed with us?” Jon asked, turning back to his advisor.

“Everyone who came with us, plus Sandor Clegane. He’s taken to managing control of the wight that they chained and boxed up below deck.”

“Dondarrion and Tormund stayed at the Wall. They’re preparing a new scout patrol to keep an eye on the Night King’s forces.” Gendry explained as he took a seat next to Davos. His gaze briefly connected with the smugglers before he turned back to Jon. “Your Grace … how did you survive?”

The look which darkened the King’s features was something that Gendry recognized instantly. Most recently, he had seen it reflected in the Queen’s gaze as she watched her two remaining dragons fly ahead of their ship as she clearly mourned the loss of the third. He had seen it whenever Davos spoke of his sons that had been lost at Blackwater Bay. The familiar look told him that Jon had lost a loved one before he had even begun to recant the story.

Benjen Stark, the younger brother of honorable Ned, had seemingly returned from the dead in order to rescue his nephew. If it had been anyone other than Jon telling the story then Gendry couldn’t be sure that he would be able to believe them. But by the time that Jon had finished retelling how he had managed to survive, he only looked defeated and broken. “I thought Uncle Benjen had been dead for years and when I finally learned otherwise, when he saves me, I lose him to that?” Jon’s jaw clenched. He was clearly angry with himself and the gods.

“My lord, you don’t know if he was truly lost.” Davos murmured in a calming tone.

“The gods have a twisted sense of fate.” The King muttered darkly.

Something pulled at Gendry. “Maybe that was his fate.” He ventured, his voice near a whisper. “Something kept him alive when Rangers and Wildings alike fought to survive.” The irony of a man who had cursed the gods so many times because of what had been taken from him to actually speak in their defense was not lost on him. “But maybe that’s why he was there.”

The three men sat in silence as they thought over the idea of what Gendry had just set before them. They had all been through too much in such a short time to want to spend time contemplating the twisted universe that was their existence.

Gendry recognized that he had brought down the mood between them and did his best to lift it. “Anyway, you’ve faced an army of dead men. Speaking with Cersei Lannister should be nothing for the likes of you.” He smiled as he recalled what he and Davos had been speaking of earlier. “If Lord Tyrion’s plan works then she’ll be scared shitless at the sight of the wight that we’re bringing.”

“What plan?” Jon asked, setting aside the now empty bowl to look over at his advisor.

Davos huffed, glaring at Gendry in the process. “We should leave His Grace to get some rest. We can discuss this more as we near the city when he’s not fightin’ exhaustion.”

“I’m not fighting _exhaustion_ ,” protested Jon with an exasperated sigh even though his eyes were laughing. Gendry couldn’t help but to shake his head as he smiled at the interaction between the two. Davos had explained before how he had come to advise the king but he knew that the Onion Knight would never admit aloud just how attached he had become to the young leader. His fatherly tone had been clear enough in the weeks since they had sailed from Dragonstone.

Following Davos’ suggestion, the two rose to leave after bidding Jon a good night’s rest.

“Gendry. Wait.” The King called just as he had been about to step from the cabin.

“Your Grace?”

He turned back to face the King. Jon’s clear gaze met his own. He looked far more serious than he had been a few moments before and the familiar Stark gray eyes made his mind swirl with memories of another.

“I sent you ahead because I trusted you to save us. Don’t beat yourself up. I made it back alive.” His tone was firm and Gendry knew that their growing friendship had betrayed his worries to Jon with his unspoken hesitation since the King had regained consciousness. “When the time for the battle comes, I’ll want you fighting with us.”

His insides felt as if they were being torn from him in that moment. Everything he had done, everything he had prepared for had brought him to that very ship, that very cabin. He was standing before the King in the North, _her brother_ , and was being recognized. Gendry opened his mouth to say something, to _say anything_.

Except he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Jon had just survived against all odds. He was feeling optimistic, lighthearted even. What kind of person would he be if he ruined it all by bringing up the sister that he had lost all those years ago? The familiar frustration at his own inability to confess the truth began to bubble beneath his skin once more. Gendry dipped his head and murmured his thanks, backing out of the cabin and putting as much distance between himself and Jon as possible in order to stop himself from doing something stupid.

And by doing so, he kept his memories of Arya to himself for yet another day.

. . .              . . .              . . .

The irony of escaping King’s Landing with Davos only to return a few weeks later was not lost on him. They had sailed away undetected in their boat after he was forced to kill two guards and now they would be walking into a meeting that was almost certainly a trap. After watching the Sept of Baelor burn and the parts of Flea Bottom burn with it, Gendry couldn’t say that he was eager to be back in the capital.

Ser Davos must have sensed his hesitation because the older man came to stand at his side, leaning forwards to rest against the ship’s railing as Gendry was doing now. “Nev’er thought ye’d be back so soon, did yeh?”

“Didn’t think I’d be alive to see it again.” He answered honestly. The fact that he was back in the city after doing nothing more than run to Eastwatch was a frustrating annoyance that he couldn’t seem to shake. When they had first sailed from King’s Landing and Davos had explained the threat in the North, he had arrived at Dragonstone expecting to give his life for the cause. But here he was, back in the capital.

Even if it was just temporary, it was still frustrating.

“Don’t get too optimistic.” Davos muttered. “We’re headed into dangerous territory.”

Gendry clenched his fists against the railing. Images of screaming children and the smell of burnt flesh came to mind. The acidic smell of wildfire would forever be burned into his memory. “You don’t have to remind me. I won’t ever forget it. I just can’t wait to see her when she meets the Dragon Queen though.”

The old smuggler beside him shifted and cleared his throat with a muffled cough. “About that. It’s probably best that you stay on the ship with the Northmen.”

“What?” He demanded as he turned to face Davos. “What’re you sayin’?”

Davos’ gaze narrowed and the wrinkles on his brow furrowed together as he moved to rest a hand on Gendry’s shoulder. “Don’t go getting’ a hot head.” His crinkled gaze met the smith’s. “But maybe it’s best if yeh don’t go parading yourself in front of the Lannister Queen.”

“What? Why?” Gendry demanded, his frustration growing.

“Why? Lad, I know you never met your father but anyone who has would know you as a Baratheon. You were safe before because the gold cloaks wouldn’t know the look but the queen and other nobles? They’d out you and if anything went wrong, she’d call for your head too.”

Gendry was furious. His anger began to boil underneath his skin as he pushed Davos’ hand away from his shoulder and began to vent. Weeks of pent up emotion came spilling out. “If you think that I’m just going to sit back here while you, the King, and everyone else literally walk into the lion’s den then you’re a fool. I didn’t leave the capital to stay behind, Davos. I didn’t go beyond the _damn Wall_ to stay behind. I signed up for this because I want to do something, I _need_ to do something. You really think I’m the type to just stand aside? Cause I’m not. Not after everything, after everyone that’s been taken from me. I’ve lost too much to just not do anything. I don’t care if we’re fighting Lannisters or sellswords or the army of the dead. I’m going to do _something_.” He stopped, breathless and somewhat confused by all that had come over him in that moment.

A somber voice broke their focus. “And you will, just not in the capital.”

Both smith and smuggler turned to see Jon Snow standing behind them. His narrowed gaze held his trademark brooding expression but his eyes were warm as he looked towards his advisor and friend.

Gendry sighed. “Your Grace, I-“

“No, Davos is right.” Jon admitted. “I only met your father the one time and I can see the resemblance in you. The Queen or some other Lannister would do the same. Then I’d be forced to explain to _both queens_ about what I was doing with Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

“You don’t know th-“

“Did you not hear the stag joke that Tyrion made at dinner the other day?” Jon interrupted, his tone gruff. “He knows.”

Gendry thought back to the first conversation he had exchanged with the younger Lannister as they had rowed away from King’s Landing and back to the ship that would take them to Dragonstone. Yes. The Queen’s Hand certainly knew of his parentage and judging by the other jokes he had made, he also found the smith’s newfound friendship with the Stark son to be somewhat amusing.

“We have to be careful, lad.” Davos said gently.

“So I’m just expected to wait here while everyone else rushes off to present themselves at this stupid summit?”

“The sailors are stayin’ behind.” The older man offered in a somewhat weak attempt to calm him.

Gendry rolled his eyes. “What does it even mat’er? So what if Cersei ‘n the Dragon Queen learn about who my father was? Robert had plenty of bastards. It’s not like I’m makin’ a move for the throne.”

“We can’t be certain they won’t see it that way.”

The young Baratheon turned away from Davos to face the King in the North. His blue eyes were a mix of anger and pleading. “Jon…if something happens in that pit…”

Jon sighed heavily. “You’re staying with the sailors. Listen to Davos.”

Gendry felt his fists and jaw clench automatically at the directive given by the king. His anger began rise. Jon had called him his friend but when it came down to it, he was still giving orders just like any noble. All those weeks had gone to waste. He was right back where he started. Just another blacksmith in the capital.

He turned away, unable to face either Davos or Jon in that moment.

_Damn highborns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up Next: Arya and Sansa begin to trust one another and know that a decision must be made. It's time for the mockingbird to stop singing. 
> 
> Taken from a brief interview with Joe about the end of Season 7, I wanted to address why Gendry apparently just disappeared after he managed to make it back to Eastwatch in record time. In the interview, Joe mentioned a scene with him and Jon in the cabin being cut. Hopefully this makes up for the Jondry friendship scene that we were robbed of.


	11. Plot  (Arya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the days pass, the Stark siblings plot to set a trap for the mockingbird.

** ARYA **

 

Even though they had agreed to work together, it was still unsettling for the Stark sisters to find themselves sitting quietly in Sansa’s chambers. They certainly hadn’t been ones to play together as children, in fact, they had often been at one another’s throats. It wasn’t often that she allowed her thoughts to wander back to her parents but in moments like these, when they were sitting quietly and waiting for the rest of the castle to fall silent, she did often wonder what her lady mother would think of the two of them sitting side by side near the fire or of what their lord father would say to the fact that they were working together to protect the pack.

Because the pack was indeed being threatened.

“Littlefinger is plotting.” Arya began after they had sat in an uncomfortable silence for more than an hour, waiting for her trained ears to deem the room safe from suspicious activity on the other side of the door.

She could see her sister forcibly control the urge to roll her eyes. “Lord Baelish is always planning something,” she reasoned almost as if discussing the weather in passing.

Arya scoffed and made sure Sansa could see her roll her own eyes. “You feel safe with his plotting then? After all that we now know he’s been responsible for? You feel secure while he lurks in the shadows?” A hardened silence feel between them once more, the unspoken fact hovering between the two sisters like an unwanted raven. _Arya also lurked in the shadows._ It was an unsettling thought for the both of them. She could see her sister’s uneasiness grow.

Sansa began by taking a shaky breath. “Surviving in plain sight is different than when you’re forced to survive on the run like you and Bran were forced to do. I’m – I’m not sure you can imagine what I had to do, what I had to lie about just to keep myself _somewhat_ safe …”

Arya felt her normally cool demeanor shift as her eyes widened in an attempt to show her own understanding at what her sister was trying to convey. “You did what you had to do.” She assured her, the usual dark tone replaced with something that she hoped resembled a _warmth_. Sometimes it felt as if she had only ever truly known the cold. But she needed her sister to understand if their plan was going to work. ‘There are things that may seem wrong but I wouldn’t have made it home if I had not done them. I’ll understand, Sansa.” She paused and inhaled sharply at the memories. “I may understand more than anyone else.”

And it wasn’t a lie. The Northern lords and Knights of the Vale knew nothing about living in a world of lies and deceit. They had both been reborn in King’s Landing after their father’s execution and it had forever changed their very souls. Arya watched her sister closely as she waited for Sansa to speak in her own time. They had spoken briefly in Bran’s chambers some nights ago but this was the first evening they had spent together in the time since and it was the first evening they would spend on their own. They _needed_ to trust one another for their plan to work.

Sansa’s blue eyes met her cool, gray gaze and Arya did her best to smile, indicating that she could speak. “I knew I needed protection from Cersei. Fate forced me into Petyr’s hands.” Sansa’s own features grew cold as she seemingly remembered the fear that had consumed her as her aunt had fallen to her death. The dark look on Arya’s face was deadly, just as it had been in Bran’s chambers when he had revealed Lord Baelish’s treason against their father that had sparked the fire which had become the war.

“You wouldn’t stop me if I took off down this hall to kill him in his sleep, would you?” Arya asked directly, short and to the point. Her gaze was locked with her sister’s.

“No,” Sansa said with a twist of shock in her own voice. The cold realization flooded through them both. “His control of the Vale is just the beginning. What Bran said is true. He sees me as his solution, his key to the North.”

“That’s when he sold you to the Boltons.”

“That’s when he sold me to the Boltons,” agreed Sansa with a whisper. Arya felt something pushing her to reach out for her sister and for the first time since they had hugged one another down in the crypts, she did not shy away from the thought of human contact. In fact, she initiated it by reaching out to place her hand atop Sansa’s, squeezing her fingers gently. There was no need for her sister to continue her story.

“We both when through a lot in our time apart.” Arya turned to look where the candles were burning low, her gray eyes clouding with memories of the past. “I cannot tell you my story, not yet. I may never be able to do. But I was telling the truth when I said that I had been training. I trained for years to take revenge on those who had harmed us and betrayed our family. When I was on my own, thinking that you and Bran and everyone else was dead, all I could think about was how safe and powerful I felt with a sword in my hand. I had escaped the God of Death more than once. It was only right that I kept on training.”

“So you went to Braavos.” Sansa supplemented.

“I went to Braavos.” She felt the briefest twist of pain and knew in that moment that she would probably never be able to completely confide in her sister, no matter how much she tried. A longer silence fell between them this time as Arya began to look around the room at the fire slowly dying in the hearth to the window that should have been replaced years ago to the furs placed neatly across the bed. She looked everywhere except at her sister before finally speaking.

“You did what you had to do.” Sansa murmured comfortingly. Arya wished she could believe it.

“I stole faces from the House of Black and White. And I take the faces of men that I kill. I used the faces to kill the Frey men responsible for the murders of our family.” She paused, momentarily fearful of how her sister would accept the truth.

She expected her sister to recoil in horror. She expected her to look at her with fear in her eyes and to avoid her for all the things that she had done. Arya knew that she did what she had to do in those moments but it didn’t make retelling her story any easier.

What Sansa said next floored her.

“You’ll use these faces again?” She prompted, startling Arya with her response though she did her best not to show it. Arya met her sister’s blue gaze and stared in silence as she did her best to understand what Sansa truly meant. Her sister had found the faces and made no move against her. Would she truly accept what she had to say? Before she could find a response within herself, Sansa began to speak once more. “I just meant that … these faces could be useful for our plan.”

Arya nodded, refocusing her attention to the task at hand. “Littlefinger will expect you to be afraid of me. He’ll expect you to question what I do and I wouldn’t put it past him to suggest his own motives. But no matter what he says, please don’t be afraid of me, Sansa.” There was a trace of pleading in her own voice and she hated herself for it.

Sansa was watching her with an odd expression. “Do you trust me to work with you and Bran to bring down Lord Baelish?”

Pushing all memories of the game of faces to the back of her mind, Arya nodded as she made a silent decision to trust her sister. They were all that they had with Jon in the South and Bran being whatever it is that he said he was. “I do, Sansa. I’ve had a plan in mind but I need to know that you trust me as well, that you won’t betray me or Bran to that awful man.”

“Lord Baelish has been nothing to me for quite some time. It’s the Knights of the Vale that have my concern. What will they do if Petyr is gone?”

“They will be loyal to you, sister.” Arya spoke, her voice hardly above a whisper. “I’ve been watching them. Lord Royce follows your every command. When the time comes, the Knights will remain loyal to the Lady of Winterfell.” She felt an uncomfortable lump in her throat as she swallowed. If someone had told her younger self that she would grow close to her sister as they grew older than she would have declared them a halfwit. _But here we are._ “But it is like I said earlier. He is earlier. We need to agree on when the best time to move against him will be.”

“And if that time is now?”

She felt her eyes brighten, impressed by Sansa’s acceptance of everything she had been told. “I will learn what he is plotting because it could prove useful. But when he no longer serves a purpose …”

“His face is yours.” Sansa said, her face void of any and all emotion.

Arya felt the smallest bit of hope blossom in her chest at the newfound trust between them.

 

. . .                   . . .                   . . .

_In winter, we must protect one another._

She had heard her Father’s words repeatedly ever since arriving at Winterfell those weeks ago only to discover a viper in the wolves’ den. As a child living in King’s Landing, she had been naïve when it had come to the inner workings of court intrigue. Lord Baelish had been no more than yet another person who had taken interest in her father, her family. And by the time she had understood that her family was in danger, it had been too late for a young girl to be able to do anything. But things were different now.

Now she had her siblings. She was home and she would die before she would let anyone else come between herself and her family.

Whispers about Petyr Baelish hadn’t escaped her in the past. The Hound had cursed him well enough during their travels so that she had come to understand that there had been much more at play than her younger self had originally believed. It was why it had been so unsettling to hear that the man had wormed his way into the North and into Sansa’s council.

This time around, she took pride in deceiving him. There would always be a thrill when she went out without a face and intentionally allowed his spies to follow her. It was clear that the Mockingbird thought himself much smarter than those around him.

_And pride will be his downfall._

“He’s still trying to turn us against one another.” Arya spoke as soon as she entered Bran’s room later than evening. “I heard him speaking to Lord Royce about _my skills_.”

“More fool him.” Sansa muttered under her breath from where she sat on the edge of Bran’s bed. Their brother was already settled beneath the furs though his eyes were focused on his siblings. It was the most focused that she had seen him in days. Her brother spent the most of his day tied to the heart tree in the godswood, ignoring everything and everyone.

“He knows you’ve been following him.” Bran interjected. “I’ve seen it.”

“Excellent.”

Sansa’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“The Faceless Men taught me to go unseen. If I truly wanted to go unnoticed then nobody would see a thing. This way, I can fool him into believing that he has the upper hand.”

“Pride can be a dangerous thing.” Bran spoke softly. “We can play into it.”

“Just what I was thinking, brother.” Arya agreed. “I’ve already begun to keep my distance from the two of you to help feed the belief that you are afraid of me.”

It was Sansa’s dark blue eyes widening in concern that caught her attention. Her sister was nervous. “Do you think the lords believe what he is saying about you? Won’t that make it dangerous if they truly believe him?”

Arya shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ve kept my eye on the most influential: Royce, Glover, and the like. They try to hide their misgivings but a trained eye can see there’s a subtle disgust for him.”

“How will it actually happen?” Bran broke in, his gaze now traveling between his sisters once more.

“You mean the all-knowing Three Eyed Raven can’t see what we’re planning?” Sansa teased, leaning to bump shoulders with their brother. Arya’s heart warmed when she saw the faintest trace of a smile.

It was Arya’s turn to narrow her gaze. “How _do_ you suggest we go about this, sister?” Arya questioned, ignoring the jibe at their brother’s odd abilities.

Sansa clasped her hands together and stood from the bed, moving slowly towards where the fire was still burning strong in the hearth. “Knowing what I know, what _we_ know, we can all agree that Lord Baelish will not go quietly.”

“The best way to make sure he doesn’t get away is to ensure that he doesn’t suspect anything.” Arya broke in, looking across the room to meet her sister’s gaze. Sansa nodded in agreement. “That means we should play into his tricks. He’ll need to believe that he’s truly turned us against one another. We’ll need him to believe he’s winning.”

“Because one whiff of danger and he’ll fly off to the Vale where he will never answer for his crimes. We must maintain that we truly believe we are a threat to one another.” Sansa continued, her gaze locked with Arya.

“He’ll walk into his own trap.” Bran surmised. Arya broke her gaze with Sansa in order to look towards the man she knew to be her brother. He was watching her with an odd expression, as if he knew the plotting that she had done. As if he knew of the other traps she had laid. She shivered involuntarily at the thought.

“Yes. He will.” Sansa confirmed in her own agreement. She met Arya’s gaze once more. Her blue eyes were almost black as they had hardened in anger. “He’ll suggest I imprison you. Or worse.”

Arya shrugged. “We can set it up how he wants. In the end, it won’t matter. You’re the one who insisted that this happen in a public manner. If I had my way then I would have slit his throat days ago. It would be nothing more than he deserves.”

Sansa turned away from her as she leaned a hand against the mantle of the hearth, her hardened gaze now locked on the burning flames. “It still needs to be a public affair. He will insist on it himself if he thinks that we are working to bring you down.”

“That will be the moment to strike.” Arya agreed, impressed with the ease that Sansa seemed to have in accepting their plot. “Just don’t forget that you promised I shall wield the blade.” Manipulating the master manipulator. Littlefinger was a slippery eel who had betrayed her family on numerous occasions. She wasn’t going to let him get away, not after she had added him to her list. She smiled as she thought of the trap they were setting for the mockingbird. The way he would pay for his crimes seemed almost poetic.  

“You’re bloody terrifying, you know that?” Sansa whispered suddenly as she turned away from the fire. “There used to be a time when you made me promise not to tell Mother you tore your dresses.” Her sister seemed to visible shiver and Arya felt a sudden twist at the thought of causing her sister pain. “All that talk of faces before …”

“Did he hear us talking then?” She asked, knowing that Littlefinger had been watching the two of them for weeks. He was always watching.

“No but I made sure he thinks I’m terrified of you now.” Sansa smiled softly and Arya felt a warmth return to her. She had her Game of Faces. Sansa had her own.

“…but are you terrified of me?” She didn’t know if she wanted a truthful answer.

Her older sister shrugged. “I wasn’t when you first returned. Then I was. Then you showed me the note and realized Petyr had his hand in this. I knew you would never betray the family.”

Arya fought the urge to exhale, to betray her emotions. She settled with a nod in Sansa’s direction. “Good. I may have trained with the Faceless Men but I would never – you know, I would never – “

“I know.” Sansa assured her. Her gaze flickered from one sibling to the other in a new concern. “But do you think we have enough to turn the lords against him?” Her sister spoke, forever the politician. Arya could now understand her hesitation. They needed the lords on their side. Though Baelish was treacherous, they couldn’t afford to lose any more men with the Long Night approaching.

“Thanks to Bran’s visions, we know more than we could have ever imagined.”

She could see Sansa’s face pale at her words. “I didn’t want to believe … what you told us.”

Sansa didn’t have to finish her sentence. Arya knew she was referring to the prior meeting when Bran had confided in them about Baelish’s complete history, that he had been able to see the exact moment when the man had _betrayed_ their father. It was the night Arya had added Petyr Baelish to the top of her list and had stayed awake through dawn planning the best and most painful way to ensure that his life would end at her hand.

“We know the truth now, thanks to Bran.” Arya spoke softly as she looked to both her siblings. “And now it is more important than ever because not only do we owe ourselves this, we owe it to _Father_.”

She felt an odd sense of calm, of security as she watched Sansa smile at her in return and could even see the briefest of emotion in the way that Bran nodded at her words. Their family had come back together, broken and unsure, but they would find the safety in one another that they had taken for granted in their youth. The pack was back together once more.

_The pack survives._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I really wish we had been able to see more into the way that Arya, Sansa, and Bran worked to bring Littlefinger down?
> 
> Anyway, Gendrya Week is almost here! I would absolutely love it if you all would vote for the week of August 11th-17th but I am biased because that's my birthday week AND the week that our hope for Gendrya was reborn (Eastwatch premiered on August 13th). So ... here's the voting link. :D https://poll.fm/10334050 
> 
> Up Next: Gendry deals with being left behind while everyone goes to the Dragonpit and as he grows closer to Jon, he struggles with what it means to keep a secret from everyone.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. As Season 8 approaches, I have to get my Gendrya reunion thoughts out there. We were deprived of so much in Season 7 (Eastwatch, anyone?). I hope to remedy that.


End file.
